


Easy on My Soul

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bitchy Dean, Bobby is an awesome dad, Comfort Sex, Confused Dean, Cuddling, Domestic Castiel, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, Heavy Petting, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, It's about time Dean, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Sexual Fantasy, Slash, Slow Burn, Teasing, glacial build, objectification of women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas loves Dean, and he wants nothing more than to show it.  Too bad Dean won’t let him—at least, not at first.  A fic chronicling the time and trouble it took for Dean to finally commit to a two-way relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burnin' for You

_July 2014_

One of the worst things about… _making out_ with Cas like this was knowing the inevitable and unavoidable conclusion—that he was gonna have to get the little bastard off.

Dean did _not_ —fucking jerk him off every time he came up here. In fact, he did his best to avoid it because it was horrible and it was disgusting and it was fucking _gay_. And he sure as hell didn’t _ever_ come up here _planning_ on yanking on Cas’s meat through his shorts. But sometimes—way too often—Cas would just—would get all _excited_ and shit, and it was mostly out of pity that Dean would…give him a hand, because he was the one who’d gotten Cas into it, so he may as well…get him out of it. Even though he so didn’t want to.

If Dean found out that that was all some kind of sick and perverted plot to get Dean to fondle him, he’d break his face. Just see if he wouldn’t.

And, despite the fact that he wasn’t getting _poked_ yet, he just knew that he’d be… _doing that_ tonight. He could just tell—Cas’s fingers were flexing restlessly wherever they touched, he leaned too much into it everything, and he was letting out those soft little sighs against Dean’s mouth. Dean knew what that meant.

The fact that he had enough experience doing this to recognize all the warnings signs of Handjob Night made Dean want to up and leave. And go stick his head in the microwave.

But he did neither, instead just pressing a little closer against Cas, making him sink further into the pillows. He wanted to stop thinking about everything that was bad about that (which was hard, because there was _so_ much bad about it—like, _everything_ ). He really just wanted to focus on what he always focused on: Cas’s happy little noises, the way his skin was always so warm under his hands when he got up under his shirt, and the shivery breath against his lips as Cas panted, and then the rush of air turned into a kiss, Cas tentatively trying to lick his way into Dean’s mouth. Dean let him—it was…okay, he supposed. Hell, why the fuck shouldn’t it be—was there _any_ logical reason whatsoever Dean should not let Cas lick at his tongue when he knew in just a little while he’d have his fingers around Cas’s dick?

He really, really wished there was.

There were hot fingers creeping up under the hem of Dean’s shirt. He sucked a little on Cas’s lower lip out of kissing-habit before pulling away, pausing to catch his own breath and get a handle on his situation. He had a feeling Cas wanted Dean to take his shirt off. Cas’s own shirt was already riding up, his pale belly exposed, and Cas really, really liked it when they were both shirtless. Dean supposed it was because he liked having all that warm skin on him, seeing as he was pretty much in a constant state of frozen. Dean, on the other hand, was not particularly comfortable with it—the more skin he had exposed meant the more skin Cas could try and get his grabby little hands on, and that really wasn’t acceptable.

_Fuck it_ , he grunted internally, reaching for Cas’s hem. He pulled hesitantly at first, but then forced himself to be more assertive about it. Cas was glad to help with that part, but Dean refused to let him help him with his; sitting up, he just sucked in a breath and pulled off his own shirt, refusing to move like some shy loser and settling back in over Cas. He’d gotten himself into this mess, so he was—gonna see it through.

Yep, there he went. Already Cas’s hands were on him, his arms circling around him so he could get his hands on his shoulder blades and start groping his way down. Dean ignored the pleasant strokes of Cas’s fingers and instead stretched up, tilting Cas’s head back with one hand and brushing his lips across his throat. Cas trembled, his arms tightening and pulling Dean up against him, trying to smush them together. Dean locked his arms, refusing to let him do that—because Cas did _not_ call the shots when they did this, goddammit. _Dean_ was in charge around here, and Cas could just deal with it. Cas got the message quick enough, his grip relaxing as he instead just angled his face so he could kiss him again. Dean grudgingly allowed it, instead sliding his hands across Cas’s torso, feeling his ribs, his stomach, and that flat, _boring_ chest that had absolutely nothing worth grabbing. He circled Cas’s nipples with his thumbs anyway, though, out of habit as much as anything, and Cas twitched as he always did. Cas’s open mouth met his own, his tongue out, and really, it was ridiculous—the smallest things got Cas excited.

Well, excited or no, he’d better not get how he got the last time Dean came up here, reaching down and squeezing his buttcheek, or else Dean would have words with him—or leave, also just like last time. If Cas grabbed at his ass one more time, he was gonna sock him—Dean was tired of telling the pervert to quit molesting him like that. It was getting to the point that Dean would tense every time Cas’s hands groped down his back so that his fingers bumped the top of his jeans. But tonight he seemed content with just touching everything else, staying firmly in the Allowed Zone. His fingers were playing up Dean’s spine, and as Dean licked and sucked softly at a spot on Cas’s neck that he knew he liked, Cas moaned softly and rolled a little closer…

Fuck. There it was. Dean couldn’t help it—he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut and instinctively jerking his lower body away from what he’d just felt. Dammit, he never got any _warning_ when Cas had gotten it up. And every time he found out about it, it was an unpleasant surprise, that fleshy prod on his thigh or his stomach (or the worst, right against his groin). And it was _stupid_ , how he reacted like this every time it happened. Actually, no, it was _not_ stupid. He had every right to react this way—Cas was sticking his fucking _boner_ all over him. He just—it was just that Dean was gonna _jerk him off_ shortly. So why the fuck should he be squicked by just _that_?

Well, easy—‘cause the jerking-off part _also_ squicked him. It was all perfectly reasonable when he thought of it that way.

Keeping his eyes shut, he breathed slowly and evenly for a few seconds against Cas’s neck, trying to stop thinking about those things he didn’t want to think about. He knew that if he opened his eyes he’d see goosebumps on Cas’s skin, which helped to distract him. But he kept his eyes closed and just kissed him again, trying to pick up where he left off. He had a _routine_ here, however sick and wrong it was, and he was just…gonna fucking do it. Step one, make out with the angel, step two, get poked with his chubby, step three, have a minor spaz-attack from it, step four, man up and get him off, step five, get the hell out of Dodge. Easy. Now, he’d done step three, so now he just needed to get back on track so he could actually make himself do step four.

_Why do I even_ have _this routine, anyway?_ he thought grumpily as he pressed his lips briefly on Cas’s pulse.

And, of course, the stupid Sam Voice answered. _Don’t you know?_ Before he could quash that—he _hated_ the Sam Voice piping up when he was _doing_ stuff with Cas—Cas’s breathy little sigh made that bit of heat deep in his chest spark warmer. _Goddammit._

Delaying the inevitable, he rubbed his cheek against Cas’s a little before Cas’s palm pressed against his jaw and turned his head, bringing Dean’s mouth back to his own. He allowed it, just as he allowed Cas’s tongue to slip past his lips. He didn’t…mind the kissing as much. The fact that he didn’t mind it still bugged him, but—well, fuck all he could do about that now.

Cas shifted, getting his chest up against Dean’s. It didn’t get any better when he slid his arms back around him, his fingers splayed against his shoulder blades, holding Dean against him. Dean did not like that at all—not with the way he was all on top of Cas right now, because it made it harder to—to friggin’ keep away from his hard-on. So, mostly to get away from that, he rolled a bit, pushing off and getting onto his side. Cas was a bitch, of course, and just followed him, trying his best to stay all mashed up against Dean—probably because he was just gravitating towards the only warm thing in the bed. Didn’t matter it was in the middle of summer, he just had to get up next to something that had heat—and just too bad for Dean that he was the only thing in the immediate area that fit the bill.

As always, Cas was not at all put off by his new position. He just nuzzled up closer, bringing his hands around to the front so he could stroke Dean there, instead of his back, one hand pressing where it always did—right there on his ribs, the left side. Dean still had no clue why the fuck he did that. But fine, Cas could do his weirdness, so long as it involved following the damn rules.

Dean couldn’t help but let his eyes close when Cas leaned forward again and kissed the corner of his mouth, and then he slowly started making his way down, his thumb brushing against Dean’s jaw as he pressed soft and gentle little kisses all the way down to Dean’s throat, and _dammit_ , he despised how that always got him going, but it wasn’t his fucking fault he had a sensitive neck! He’d be having the exact same shivery inhale if it was a chick doing this, thank you very much—and he knew _that_ from experience. Cas had absolutely nothing to do with it.

He twitched when he felt Cas’s tongue lick softly at the place where his pulse was beating, and his own grip on Cas tightened slightly when he sucked gently at the same spot. Okay, nice as that felt, he had better cut that shit out ASAP, because he knew the rule on hickeys. Good—Cas had remembered his stern lecture—he’d stopped, and was now just rubbing his face against Dean’s throat. Reaching up, Dean got his fingers in Cas’s hair and made him tilt his head back, leaning down and kissing him again. Cas’s hand pressed a little harder against his ribs, and Cas’s kisses were getting deeper now, his breathing getting harder. Dean got a hand on Cas’s shoulder and pushed, not getting him on his back but making him lean back—Cas was not allowed to attack him. He could just calm his butt down.

The usual tactic worked, of course—just one long kiss where Cas couldn’t get any air and he would behave himself again. Granted, his fingers were digging a bit painfully into Dean’s shoulder, but he could deal with that. Pulling away from Cas’s mouth, he kissed downwards, grudgingly admitting to himself that he…kinda wanted to hear Cas make those tiny, tiny noises he always did when Dean kissed and licked his neck. Cas was damn-near silent when they did their thing—which Dean was not complaining about, mind. Cas was just following orders, and he could keep on doing it. Two rounds of shrieky delight where the whole damn house could hear him were _way more than enough_.

But still—he couldn’t help it. He liked…being able to make Cas make those little noises of his despite his orders.

_Goddammit._

After bumping Cas’s chin with his forehead to make him tilt it up, he just went to town with slow, lazy licks and nibbles, one right there at his jaw, another on where his pulse point was going crazy, one on his Adam’s apple ( _shit_ ), and when he got to the hollow of Cas’s throat, right there, dipping his tongue in, Cas shuddered and sucked in a breath, his hands blundering up into Dean’s hair, and right before he tugged on it to make Dean kiss his mouth again, Dean heard it—

“ _Dean._ ”

Fucking _hell_.

Didn’t matter if he wasn’t completely comfortable with this. Didn’t matter that he’d been hearing that for two years now. Every _fucking_ time—

He returned Cas’s frantic kiss with almost equal enthusiasm, because Dean doubted he’d ever understand just what it was _about_ the way Cas said his name, but as always, it made him just…not really care much about anything. Well, not entirely, but he certainly cared less about all this “making out with a guy” stuff than he did before, skimming his hands down Cas’s sides to feel his soft stomach again. When Cas pulled away again, Dean barely managed to catch himself from letting out a whiny protest— _no_ , he was not gonna do that again—but Cas’s mouth soon returned, going back to his neck, but it wasn’t soft this time. Dean knew he’d hit the switch with all the stuff he’d done before, but after—after two years, Cas was—

Fuck. Cas was getting very, very good. And Dean knew it. And he didn’t bother trying not to shake as Cas’s teeth grazed that spot right behind his ear, and instead just leaned back a little so Cas could have more room.

Dean twitched when Cas nibbled and sucked his way down to where his neck met his shoulder, and unconsciously he got his fingers in Cas’s hair and held him there, tilting his head so Cas could get at all the available skin with his mouth. Cas obliged him, even going so far as to bite down very gently right there, though he didn’t genuinely just _bite_ him, and it was a good thing he didn’t because Dean would have thumped his skull if he had. Cas’s hands were on his chest again, only he wasn’t satisfied with just feeling around for his heartbeat this time. No, now Cas was _petting_ him, and his hands were always so _hot_ —just like everything else was on Cas. While Dean didn’t freak out like Cas tended to when his nipples got touched, he wasn’t immune to it, and he was annoyed when his breath hitched when Cas brushed his fingers across both of them in time with licking and sucking pleasantly at the thin skin of his clavicle. He rolled onto his back again, just a little, and took Cas with him as he did. Now, it was true that whenever Cas got even a little…on top, as it were, he took that as an invitation to kiss wherever he wanted. But Dean had reached the point where he didn’t care _too_ much, and if he was going to be honest, he was putting off the unpleasantness and so really didn’t mind if things were drawn out a little. So Cas could have at it, so long as he followed protocol.

And he did—while he pressed up against Dean, his toasty little torso sliding against Dean’s, he didn’t try to crawl all on top of him like he had once or twice before Dean had unceremoniously kicked him off. Dean just kept his eyes shut, concentrating on the way Cas tasted the skin of his throat once more before he moved a bit lower, and there was a pause, right there at that same spot where he’d lingered on Cas, at the base of his neck. Unable to stop himself, Dean glanced down, and there was Cas, looking back, his eyes bright and inquisitive, and Dean watched when he pressed a kiss below his usual stopping point, right at the top of his sternum.

Cas never talked during this stuff—as he _shouldn’t_. But he always found a way to ask shit anyway. And here he was, asking if he could kiss lower than the shoulder mark.

Dean didn’t tug him back up, and Cas took that as a yes, and Dean felt a small noise escape his throat when Cas just went on his merry way, kissing all the way down to his _ribs_ in his quest to lick the new parts of Dean that he hadn’t been allowed to before.

Dean supposed this was…okay (except how it wasn’t, but whatever). Despite it having been two years, the only time Cas had ever gotten his mouth on anything below the usual had been that first (and _horrible_ ) night they’d…done stuff. But now, Cas had experience ( _shit_ ) and Dean was…more comfortable with things ( _SHIT_ ). So it was different.

Dean couldn’t decide if it was a good different or a bad different. He decided to go with the default—bad.

A shaky exhale against his left side made him shiver, and he scowled a little when he felt goosebumps rising on his arms, and Cas had stopped moving, just sitting with his mouth right against his ribs. Dean knew what he was doing, and he ignored it, just stroking and petting Cas’s hair with one hand and playing up and down his back with the other. Cas pressed his mouth over his heartbeat again, and then just _listened_ , nuzzling him at the same time. Dean shifted a little, vaguely uncomfortable, trying to figure out a way that he could get closer to Cas without actually involving getting closer to him.

He looked down again just in time for Cas to look up, his fingers reaching up to press against his ribs, and there was that stunned look again like he just couldn’t believe Dean was alive. Dammit, the shit Dean did for him up here should do well enough to convince him that he wasn’t fucking dead. But his amazed little gaze didn’t last long, because he was right back up in Dean’s business and all Dean could see were shiny, piercing blue eyes and then he felt it right against his mouth—

“ _Dean…_ ” he breathed, and his fingers curled against Dean’s chest as he moaned softly when Dean gripped him tightly, holding him against him and kissing him hard. He moaned again when one of Dean’s hands suddenly developed a mind of its own and went lower and squeezed Cas’s butt—dammit, Dean knew better than to grab him there, but he couldn’t help it. So he left his hand there for a few seconds more, enjoying Cas’s little pants against his mouth and the firm cheek under his palm, but dammit, he was _uncomfortable_ —he needed to fix that—so he unwillingly ( _goddammit_ ) relinquished his hold on Cas’s ass.

Just a little wriggling and a quick reach down between them with his now-free hand, and then things felt so much better. Now it was back to business and business involved reaching up and pushing on Cas’s shoulder, making him tilt himself up, his palms sinking into the mattress as Dean kissed his jaw, his neck, and then went lower, licking his sternum and then, in a burst of insanity, he guessed, managed to brush the tip of his tongue right across Cas’s pathetic excuse for a nipple. But Cas liked it—well, that was an understatement—so he did it again, a firmer swipe this time, but he didn’t get to do it more because the next thing he knew it was his turn to get all the air kissed out of him, Cas’s tongue in his mouth and wildly twisting against his own, and Cas’s palm was once more on his ribs, feeling his heart pounding there, pressing him down into the mattress, and then stroking down further, petting his stomach, and lower—

_Fuck_ no _he wasn’t touching anything lower!_

Dean’s eyes shot open with the realization that Cas had just decided to try and grab his dick, and he quickly let go of his hair. His hand snapped around Cas’s wrist like a handcuff, his jaw clenched. _Not fucking happening!_ he snarled internally. He didn’t know where the _fuck_ Cas had suddenly gotten the idea that he could do that, but Cas was _not_ touching his—his—

_Oh fuck._

And suddenly Dean realized what Cas had been reaching for. Realized why he’d been uncomfortable before. Why he’d reached down and unzipped his jeans. That he’d reached down and unzipped his jeans in the first place.

Because he’d apparently been sending Cas an unconscious message—because he was rock-hard and ready for anything.

_FUCK!_

He shoved Cas off of him, and Cas went with a little huff, bouncing onto his back on the mattress and looking confused and ashamed like he always did when he thought he’d done something wrong. And fuck _yes_ , he’d done something wrong—not only had he been reaching down to get his hands on Dean’s prick, but he’d—he’d fucking—

_You fucking bastard, you turned me on!_

Dean never thought he’d take such great comfort in just how fast his boner could wilt.

He wasn’t gonna stay here a minute longer, was _not_ gonna stick around just so he could get Cas off—oh no, Dean was _done_. He stood up quickly, zipping up his jeans and snatching his shirt off the foot of the bed, marching stiffly across the room and, after yanking his shirt back on, jerked the door open and resisted the urge to slam it shut. However, he couldn’t storm down the hallway and into his room yet—not until he got his knees to stop shaking. So he stood there, one hand braced on the closed door as he fumed impotently, his nails digging into his palms, and the deep, calming breaths he was taking did fuck all for him.

That stupid—he’d—goddammit, he’d gotten it up! _With Cas!_ What the hell was he even supposed to do with that?! That did not—did not mean that he wanted—

_Son of a bitch!_

Squeezing his eyes shut, he finally forced his legs to move, taking the few necessary steps to get into his room so he could at least get out of the hallway where anybody could see him. He really didn’t want to be seen standing there right outside of Cas’s room, all mussed and breathing heavy like he was, because God knows what people named Sam and Bobby would think if they spotted him like that.

Once he was in his room, he shut the door—resisting the urge to slam that one, too—and then leaned back against the door, rubbing his hand over his face.

He shouldn’t have let Cas…do all that. He had deviated from his routine, and look where it got him. It was Dean’s own fault for letting him…

_Goddammit, Cas._

He’d just…have to be more careful. He just could not _take_ that kind of shit again. ‘Cause—for fuck’s sake, Cas took his hard-on as a goddamn _invitation_! That was just—that was _completely_ unacceptable. Hell, his _hard-on_ was unacceptable. But that had just…happened. And much as he wanted to, he couldn’t pin it _all_ on Cas.

Just most of it.

Heaving away from the door, he slowly shuffled to the ratty couch, just wanting to go to sleep and pretend none of this ever happened—and thank the powers that be that Sam had chosen to sleep downstairs tonight.

* * *

_October 2014_

Mmm…thank God Sammy thought library exhibits were interesting and so was out of the motel this afternoon.

Dean and Sam had been about ready to hit the road again after a dud hunt in Indiana when Sam had seen the flyer in the café window—the local university library was trotting out their historical collection to show to the public. A bunch of old dusty crap, as far as Dean was concerned, but Sam had been all pissy when Dean had not been impressed and had just wanted to blow town without seeing it. He’d been going on about Illuminated manuscripts and an original Isaac Newton or some shit when Dean had told him to just go—by _himself_ , thank you. Dean had every intention of staying at the hotel and taking a _nap_. So Sam had taken the car to the campus and Dean had holed up in their room, flopping down on his bed and reaching up to grab his phone and his earbuds, ready to let the sweet sound of Led Zep and Styx to lull him to sleep.

But his fingers had bumped the little metal box, the one sitting there just _begging_ to be fed quarters…

Sam had almost demanded they find a new place to stay when he’d found out this motel had Magic Fingers, but Dean had put his foot down—this place was _perfect_ now, as far as he was concerned, so he could suck it up and like it. And in an act of defiance, he hadn’t used them _once_. Granted, they’d only been here a day—hadn’t taken them long to figure out that the local superstition was just that and the recent disappearance had nothing to do with it—but still, he hadn’t done it.

But man…it was right there. And he was by himself—Sam would be gone for an hour at _least_. And that shop owner they’d questioned yesterday, she didn’t look a day over twenty-two, long, glossy black hair twisted up and held in place with chopsticks, and she’d fluttered and smiled at him and answered all of his questions with that low, sultry tone, and she’d had a body that belonged on the cover of his favorite mag—

He’d not felt a _bit_ guilty feeding that thing four quarters to start with. He’d spared a thought for the possibility that Sam would come back early as he’d shifted on the bed, getting himself centered and more comfortable, but hell—Sammy didn’t like what he saw, he could leave. Sam was a turd and deserved no less, in Dean’s opinion. Wasn’t his fault Sam was so insecure he ran screaming at the sight of Dean’s package—if he didn’t know Dean was the _big_ brother in every sense of the word by now, he was an idiot. So there.

_Oh yeah, that is_ so _good_ , he internally purred, the bed thrumming to life and sending those delicious vibrations all over and through him. Slipping his earbuds in, he set his playlist on shuffle perfectly content with Foreigner popping up first—oh, “Hot Blooded” indeed. He rested his phone on his chest and reached down, unbuttoning his fly and sliding the zipper down, pushing his jeans and shorts down so they were just off his hips—no point in going completely naked.

Closing his eyes, he immediately saw her—who cared if she didn’t have blue hair? Miko she was. Shame he hadn’t caught her real name, but this would do fine. He reached down and just loosely stroked and squeezed his limp prick a few times while he introduced himself—she just couldn’t resist him. Of course not—but really, who could? He gave her his most winning smile and invited her back to his room—he was about to show her that there was more to life than getting attacked by tentacles that always went for sensitive areas (hot that may be).

C-cup was the _best_ cup, as far as he was concerned—they just fit so goddamn well right into his palm, and they had give and softness and were just _awesome_. He liked how she stepped right into his arms, kissing him, and she tasted like cherries. He couldn’t wait to taste the rest of her. And he would, but not right now—this wasn’t a quickie. He had _time_ , man.

By the time he was slowly—and teasingly, and he smirked at her frustration—unhooking her bra one latch at a time, he was hard, but not painfully so. He focused on his loose fist and the way he could almost feel his fingertips trailing across her smooth skin as he undid the last hook, bringing the lacy pink fabric with him, and—oh yeah. There they were. And they were perfect, just like he knew they would be. They were soft and warm and so _perky_ —he loved that. And she loved what he was doing to ‘em, first teasing her rosy-pink nipples with his fingers and then curling one arm around her back, getting her to curve her spine so those luscious tits tipped upward towards his mouth, so he could flick his tongue across them both, listening to her quiet little gasps.

It was his fantasy, so if he wanted to materialize them both on a big, soft bed without stopping what he was doing, he could do that. She writhed gently under him, shivering when his teeth grazed her nipple, and then he reached down to unbutton her—no, he changed his mind. He reached down to hike up the hem of her short little pleated skirt, stroking the insides of her bare thighs right above those fucking hot tall stockings she was wearing and feeling her tremble under his touch.

Dean tightened his grip on his cock in reality, finally starting to jerk faster. He could feel the vibes all the way in his bones now ( _Yeah, all of them_ , he smirked to himself), and the slow burn was starting to unfurl in his midsection.

He was on his back now, Miko astride his hips and he could feel that he didn’t have panties on, the tease, grinding her bare ass and shaved pussy against him, rocking and rubbing against his hard-on. Her hands were on his chest, pressing against his ribs, and she leaned down, brushing her lips once across his and just whispering his name, all soft and sweet— _fuck_ yes, that sounded nice—but then she was on the move again. She started with his pulse, kissing it gently and then giving him a little lick, and then she was going downward—oh yeah, he knew where this was going and it was gonna rule. She took her time getting to his stomach, brushing her lips across all of his favorite spots—of course she knew them. Why shouldn’t she? Then she sat there and stared up at him as she undid his belt and his jeans. He watched, entranced, as her fingers curled inside both his shorts and jeans, and then she was slowly sliding them off his legs—he was amused with how eager she was to get her hand around his dick. But he wasn’t gonna stop her—if she wanted to suck him off, she could go right ahead and do that.

After he spat in his palm, she started in, just lapping at the head of his cock, and he watched as her tongue slid past her lips and the tip pressed against the slit at the end—that looked _awesome_ and he was vaguely proud of himself for almost recreating what it would _feel_ like as he moved his thumb in time with her tongue. He had one hand on her head in his mind, just getting his fingers tangled up in that messy dark hair he loved, and she just batted her big dark eyes up at him as she slid his cock in and out of her mouth, smiling around his prick, her long-fingered hands tight on his thighs.

Briefly, Dean opened his eyes, keeping them half-lidded, continuing to pump his fist as he reached down with his other hand to give his balls a bit of a squeeze. Shit, every time he did this with the Magic Fingers, it was amazing. He wriggled a little, getting more comfortable and jerking himself a bit faster.

He closed his eyes again, because the plain white ceiling with its textured paint was not nearly as hot as what he could see in his head, that mouth around his prick, sucking him off, his eyes all big and blue—

—blue—

_—that—_

_—HIS—_

_JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, CAS WAS SUCKING HIS COCK!_

He barely heard the horrified, strangled shout he gave as he yanked his hand away from his own prick as if burned, thrashing as he struggled to sit up and not—and get that—oh _fuck_ , he— _get it out of my head out of my head—_

Dean couldn’t help but let out the most _pathetic_ grunt ever because he lost his boner and his _everything_ so fast that it _hurt_. But it was worth it, because the pain distracted him from the—from the mental sight that—from knowing that he’d just _fantasized_ —his fucking fantasy chick had turned into—

_Son of a bitch! Goddammit—fuck you, Cas! Just FUCK YOU!_

* * *

_February 2015_

Goddammit, Cas was a fucking bastard—he _needed_ to get off, and he kept interrupting him! Was it too much to ask that he tug it in _peace_ with something _normal_ in mind?!

Just a quick one, dammit. That’s _all_ he wanted. Just the last thing to do before heading back to the motel. He’d left to try and calm down and ease up on the tension in the first place! He and Sam had been at each others’ throats all trip, and he wanted to just—just take his mind of the fact that his brother was a snot-nosed know-it-all and a total _bitch_ because oh, he _always_ knew when cases were gonna be duds, because he had some kind of goddamn _divining rod_ or some shit, yes, wasn’t he just so clever and had to rub it in Dean’s face every time Dean got something wrong. But at this point, Dean didn’t even _care_ about their fighting or Sammy, because all his rage was directed at someone who wasn’t even here.

He knew a quick jerk would help—God knew he was on edge a lot these days anyway because he wasn’t fucking getting _anything_ —but no, Cas was ruining it. The son of a bitch wasn’t just content with popping in and ruining his extended fantasies now. No, now he was screwing up his quickies, too. He was screwing up _everything_! For the drawn out fantasies, it was easy to kick him out of his head, settle down, and start over so he could do it right. But now? Now he just didn’t have the _patience_ for it, and he’d just be thinking about tits and a curvy waist, then he’d suddenly realize that his chick had gone flat and the lips against his neck were suspiciously rough, right there on his pulse—

Oh, _goddammit_ , he’d done it _again_!

Growling, he shifted lower in his seat, his legs spreading a bit more, and he squeezed his eyes shut and jerked his fist almost angrily, pausing only to spit in his palm again to avoid chafing—seeing as this was being dragged out way beyond the couple of minutes he’d originally wanted. He was sitting here off on the side the road in the middle of the day, for fuck’s sake—hence a quick one. Didn’t matter than it was a backwoods dirt track; he was gonna get arrested if sat out here jackin’ it and drew it out for half an hour. Which was what was fucking _happening_ , thanks to _Cas_.

Dean was gonna _kill_ that fucking angel when he got back to Bobby’s. Just see if he wouldn’t.

Gritting his teeth, he plunged his mind into warm, soft skin that tasted like apples and cherries and went for broke. He was close to the point that, if he could just _stay on target_ and move it hard and fast, it’d be done. So if Cas would just _stop taking over_ his college cheerleaders for a _minute_ —

Thin and dainty fingers on his chest—long, strawberry-blonde hair, and he had his hands in it—yes, there went the heat, starting to get hotter, and he thrust his hips a little against his hand, yes, go tight, it was getting tight, just focus on the slim hand on his chest, sliding lower, fuck, _fuck_ , just a bit more—

_Dean_ , murmured low and husky, reverent and with all that breathy ecstasy he loved but _so did not want to hear right now_ —!

For one agonizing second, he almost stopped, was gonna start over, but goddammit, he was _right there_ , and so close it almost _hurt_ , but in his head it was _Cas_ , it was _still Cas_ , _Cas’s_ hand on his cock, stroking, squeezing, ‘cause Cas wouldn’t _go away_ , and in his mind he saw those blue eyes, staring into him—

His aching and horribly tight balls won out and he let it go, oh, _fuck_ , Cas gripped and squeezed his prick while his tongue licked up and down Dean’s throat, sucking at his neck where his pulse was thundering, and his thumb stroked hard at the head of his cock and he felt Cas groan against his throat _yes, Dean_ —

“ _Fuck_ ,” he moaned, jerking fast and hard, shuddering and shaking against the onslaught of his orgasm and the images still in his head, still there, _shit_ , he couldn’t—goddammit, it was _Cas_ —

Panting lightly, he felt none of the familiar looseness he usually enjoyed after a jerk. In fact, that was probably the worst time he’d ever had—and here he’d prided himself on how much fun he could have with just one hand. Grabbing the napkins nearby, he scrubbed off his other hand where he’d caught his load, growling in his throat.

Son of a _bitch_ , he’d just—

What the hell was he supposed to do with that? He’d—he’d just _imagined_ Cas—Cas _doing_ something to him! _Touching_ him—and in ways that were _most assuredly not allowed_ , thank you very much! Oh, Cas had tried once or twice, but Dean had made it clear—that was _out of the question_. But here he’d—he’d fucking—

He suddenly realized that, in his anger and mortification, his dick was still hanging out. Snarling, he zipped up again, and decided that it probably wouldn’t be wise to give in to the temptation to keep his used napkin so he could stick it in Sam’s bag or something when he got back, though it would’ve been really satisfying. But no—not worth the bitching out he’d get from Sam when he found it. God—he couldn’t take another Sam Winchester “I know everything because the stick up my ass is so far up there that it pokes the sensitive parts of my brain and keeps it more active than stupid people like you” lecture. Not after—after _this_.

Thumping his head once against the back of the seat, he righted himself and turned the keys a little harder than normal, the engine roaring to life, and he put her into gear so he could head back to the motel.

God-fucking-dammit, was it too much to ask for—for something _normal_?!

* * *

_May 2015_

Dean really didn’t think that wanting Cas to get off and finish up quickly was too much to ask. That was the point he always seemed to want to get to anyway, his little Seven Seconds of Heaven, so why wasn’t he _there_ yet?

He _definitely_ regretted the impulsive and _stupid_ decision he’d made a some odd months back—any time he’d gotten Cas off before, he’d just rubbed him through his shorts, and that had done the trick. But now, no—now he was actively reaching in there. He still didn’t know what had possessed him to do it. Who cared—fact of the matter was he had, and now he just did it _every_ time, and he was doing it now.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true—although being possessed was certainly an easier-to-take explanation than the fact that he’d done it all on his own, and he knew exactly why. It was because in the beginning, Cas had shot off with barely any effort on Dean’s part at all, just a quick rub through his pants and then he could scram. But then Cas started getting used to it or something, building up his endurance, and before long Dean realized that he was having to play with Cas’s cock for way, _way_ longer than he had _ever_ wanted to to make him get off. He’d come to the awful conclusion that if he wanted to speed things back up, maybe he should stop being such a pussy about it and just skip the comforting cloth between them. Talk about a sucktastic choice—but in the end, it hadn’t been a hard one. Because it was either tug on Cas for five to ten minutes through his shorts, or man up and get a handful of warm cock for just one. He knew which one he’d take (that, and some tiny, _tiny_ part of him was starting to become concerned that he was going to rub Cas raw, doing it the other way).

He didn’t have to do much, granted. The first time he’d gritted his teeth and just reached in there and grabbed his dick with his bare hand, Cas had gone off in less than thirty seconds, just like old times—but that was hardly a concession. That Dean did it at all was horrible. But he’d gotten—gotten so used to Cas being a One Minute Wonder that he’d—that he’d even do _that_ just to keep it thataway.

Dammit, why did he have to pick _now_ to start holding out a little longer again?!

Shifting a little, he squeezed tighter and started—started jerking him more, putting more effort into it than he usually did instead of just relying on Cas to fuck his hand for him ( _oh, Jesus_ ). Cas moaned, his hands squeezing his shoulders, and Dean really hated how that sound sent another tiny lance of fire to his pelvis—fucking hell, this was so damn _wrong_ and yet his fucking dick fucking loved it.

He jumped a little when he was suddenly being very messily kissed, one of Cas’s hands knotting in his hair as he shoved his tongue past Dean’s lips. _Goddammit, Cas._ But before he could even try and make him stop that, Cas tore his mouth away on his own, instead burying his face against Dean’s neck, his quiet little pants against his skin making him shiver. That was another part that really sucked about this—he was so not turned on by fucking _jacking Cas off_ , but everything else Cas did, those noises, his wild, messy kisses, and the way he…rubbed his body against Dean’s, and that sometimes Dean…rubbed back…

Shit—he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault, though!

Cas was still making those tiny whimpers, but Dean could tell from the little increase in volume that he’d be going off soon, so Dean did his best to get his hand away from the business end because having that on his hand _still_ grossed him out, so he always did his best to make sure Cas’s shorts caught most of the nasty load. _Son of a bitch, would you just_ come _already?_ he snarled to himself, and with his free hand groped up until he got his fingers in Cas’s hair, making him tilt his head to the side so he could kiss his neck, looking for all the spots he liked best just so he’d _do it_ already.

“ _D—Dean—_ ” And Cas’s mouth was back on his own as he finally, _finally_ arched up against Dean, throwing his entire body into it like he always did, and all his noise was muffled by Dean’s mouth as he _finally_ came, jerking helplessly against Dean’s fingers, his grip painful on his upper arms, but Dean just kissed him quiet through the whole thing, squeezing his eyes shut when he felt—felt _that_ getting on him—

Cas relaxed after a moment, though he kept himself all pressed up against Dean, breaking off the kiss (or rather, just kind of falling off of it) with a pathetic wheeze. Once Cas had his face back up against Dean’s neck and couldn’t see his expression, Dean could grimace like he wanted to, prying his fingers off of Cas’s prick so he could get that shit _off_. God, that was nasty.

After wiping his hand down probably more than was necessary on a dry spot in Cas’s shorts, he pulled his hand out, knowing he’d be Brillo-ing it before he went to sleep just like he did every time he jerked Cas off. Now it was just a waiting game—once his own prick stopped being so cheerfully hard, he’d get the hell out of Dodge. Wasn’t about to go wandering through Bobby’s house with a boner and give those asshats even _more_ ideas than they undoubtedly had.

Cas still had his arms all wrapped around Dean, his bare chest pressed against his own. He was all hot, of course, and that made _Dean_ all hot, which was annoying. But then Cas moved a little, and now his stomach was pressed against Dean’s, too— _Goddammit, get your hips away from mine._

Dean shifted backwards a little, unable to stop the twitch of his stomach muscles as he got rubbed a bit through his pants. Shit—that did not help his boner. He wanted it to go _down_ , dammit. But no, Cas wasn’t helping, either—following Dean as he moved and getting pressed right back up against him, nuzzling him like he was, right there against his neck, his warm hands stroking along his back—

He always did this. Cas was a _cuddler_ , Dean had been dismayed to discover several months into his…routine of giving Cas a handjob. When he first started jerking him, the minute Cas went off, Dean would bug out—he wanted no part of that. But now that he was getting fucking turned on too, he couldn’t leave until he’d calmed down. And the feathery little bastard took advantage of it too, as if just ‘cause Dean _couldn’t_ leave yet, he obviously didn’t _want_ to, and that just ‘cause he hadn’t thrown Cas out of the bed meant that he could just keep on _cuddling_ with him and shit. Well, he could just cuddle his pillow—Dean was not interested. But, despite making it clear that post-handjob cuddling was not an option, Cas still managed to work it so he got at least a little bit when Dean was lying there all still and trying to make himself go soft. The little prick didn’t _need_ any fucking _cuddling_ after, because he got plenty of it when they were making out—he always took advantage of when Dean had to stop after being forcibly reminded that Cas was a dude.

Fucking hell, why wouldn’t it go _down_? How long had it been, anyway? _Cas, you bastard, stop that!_ No wonder he couldn’t get his hard-on to hard-off—Cas was _breathing_ on him, and one hand had circled around to press on his chest and he’d brushed his nipple to get there— _You did that on purpose, didn’t you?_

Oh, great. Cas had moved up from breathing and nuzzling and was now _kissing_ his neck. How fucking _peachy_. Nothing frantic, of course, just little ones that were borderline annoying but just enough so that he still _liked_ them. He twitched a bit, shrugging his shoulder trying to send him a message to tell him to _quit it_ , but of course he didn’t pick it up. In fact, Dean felt stupid for trying—Cas couldn’t read signals.

Or rather, he misread them and did the opposite of what he wanted _every goddamn time_. And this time was no exception, because now Cas was petting him, stroking his chest, going a little lower each time and the little shivers of heat going down his spine from where his fingers touched his skin were driving him crazy. _Fuck you, Cas_ , he growled.

Okay. Time to stop. He had to get Cas away from him, because he—he was turned on, and he needed to just— _Cas, stop_ touching _me, dammit!_

_And don’t fucking touch_ there _, you little prick!_

Jerking away from Cas’s hand where it had been pressed low against his stomach, the tips of his fingers brushing the top of Dean’s shorts—because he’d had to unzip his jeans again because he’d been in fucking _pain_ —he pried himself out of Cas’s grip and sat up. Cas let him go, sighing in a way that Dean knew was both contentment and disappointment because he’d heard it so many times already. _Fuck._

Moving awkwardly, he managed to get to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs down to the floor. He was, for once, a little grateful for the added space he had now—Cas’s new bed provided him that. On the other hand, he _still_ was mad about Cas’s double bed—Dean had come home after a hunt and slunk upstairs one night to see Cas reading not in his single, but _this_. Cas had said Bobby had just wanted to get him a new bed to replace his old one, but Dean wasn’t dumb—if that was true, Bobby wouldn’t have gotten a _double_. That old bastard—if he was _implying_ anything—

_He doesn’t have to_ imply, that smug little voice that always showed up at the worst times simpered. Dean twitched and glowered at his hard-on for a moment before snatching his shirt up and yanking it on. Then he settled in and squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the sheets tightly, trying to _will_ it to go down, doing his best to not think of all that warm skin he’d just been touching. Or of how Cas’s tongue had licked gently at his pulse. And across his chest. And how Dean had reached _into_ his shorts and gotten a _double_ handful of Cas’s firm little butt tonight.

Oh Jesus Christ, this wasn’t working. _It wasn’t fucking working!_

He couldn’t quit. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. And the bed was shifting because Cas was right there behind him—Cas—who was—

He had to take the risk. He didn’t want to— _so_ didn’t want to—but he had to do _something_ —had to get out of here, to get _away_ from that stupid _angel_ —

Rising quickly, he held up his jeans with one hand and yanked his shirt down over his stiff prick, feeling _so_ idiotic, but he had to get anywhere but here. He made it across the room despite his awkward walk, and then slowly opened the door to check and see if the coast was clear. No creaking on the stairs, no one in the hall. Slipping out, he shut the door behind him and dashed down the hall with the quickest walk he could manage, his clothes rubbing against his prick the whole time and making it _worse_ —

He skipped his room and went straight for the bathroom because he couldn’t take this—could not take this _any more_. Not turning on the light, he shut the door and locked it before making a beeline for the toilet, tugging his shirt back up and pushing his jeans and shorts just a little off his hips, getting his dick out, and a little spit in his palm later and he just furiously started in on himself, because he wasn’t gonna draw this out, hell no, he just needed it to _go away_ —

Things were already hot and they got hotter as he didn’t bother wrestling with himself like he usually did, didn’t bother trying to force the usual fantasies in because he wasn’t stupid, what had turned him on tonight was what he’d _gotten_ , and he was just gonna have to deal with it. So he imagined what he’d already imagined before, those hot hands on his stomach going lower, but he didn’t flinch away in his head like he did in reality, oh no, every single time he’d done it in his head Cas had him, had his _cock_ , fuck, it was so _wrong_ but his balls didn’t care as they started tightening up because Cas jerked him just right, his teeth clamped right there where Dean’s shoulder met his neck, his body burning and pressed up against his, and always, right there, right before Dean came, he’d _moan_ it, moan his _name_ and _Jesus fucking Christ why was it like that every goddamn time—?!_

He bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from groaning loudly, his fingers flexing against the wall, and he dimly hoped to God he was making it in the bowl because his eyes were shut and he didn’t know if he wasn’t aiming right anymore, but who the fuck _cared_ , because yes, all that pressure was _gone_ , and it felt so much _better_.

Well, about ten seconds after he was done panting, he cared. He cared a _lot_. He cracked his eyes open, afraid he might see a disaster, but no, he’d aimed right. Good. He didn’t want to have to worry about cleaning up that mess when he had more pressing concerns on his mind. Like that one.

It hadn’t gone away. _It hadn’t gone away._ That was _totally_ unacceptable. It was one thing to get turned on when it was happening—because who could fucking blame him?! He hadn’t gotten any in three years, and Cas was all _ruby_ and _warm_ —but for it to _not go away_? For him to not be able to get it out of his _head_ , for it to _follow him_? No, no, _no_ , what he did with Cas in that room was _not_ supposed to leave it, not even in his own fucking head.

…except it already had. Every time Dean’s fantasies accidentally turned into Cas.

Shit.

Furiously, he flushed the toilet, getting rid of all evidence of his little fap before he stormed back to his room to throw himself on the couch and stew.

This had better not become a regular thing. It _wouldn’t_ become a regular thing. Because he _said_ so. He was just—he was just desperate was all, goddammit! He wasn’t getting any anywhere else, he had fucking blue balls, and he’d done something about it. That’s all this was. So as ridiculous and wrong as this one-time thing was, it was still a one-time thing, and wouldn’t happen again.

_Oh yeah. Since you’re obviously gonna get some in the near future and stop being so desperate._

_Shut the fuck up, Sam!_


	2. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas’s angst over the state of his relationship with Dean and his festering guilt over playing God finally explode, and Bobby is there to talk him down.

_March 2015_

Looking back on it, Bobby figured he should’ve known better than to leave that idjit unsupervised. Clarity of hindsight, and all. But in his defense, Cas should’ve known better too. How many times was he gonna pull shit like this ‘cause he forgot he wasn’t an angel anymore? How many times was he gonna jack himself up before he learned some damn _self-control_?

It’d started out innocently enough—Cas’d had a particularly good day. Enough to make Bobby acknowledge it, anyway. Bobby’d been getting him trained up with more conventional weapons for over a year now, but during his morning practice, for the first time ever, he’d managed to nail ten shots in a row on or at least near the bullseye. That afternoon, he’d translated a particularly annoying text that had been bugging Bobby for months. And when a hunter called late that evening, hoping for a little info about solving a case, Cas had been the one to peg what he was hunting as a rusalka, a type of water spirit that had been preying on the local male populace. He’d done a good job with everything in general, so Bobby had just wanted to give him a nice little “good job” treat.

He couldn’t think of a better way than to just sit down and have a drink with him. Dean was always stingy with the booze when he was with Cas—barely let the bastard have any at all (because _he_ was too busy drinking it), so Cas had only had a beer or two on very rare occasions. Well, screw that. He and Cas were gonna toast a job well done with some Wild Turkey.

Cas had been damn near _excited_ at the prospect of sitting down and having a drink with Bobby. Bobby wasn’t too surprised—didn’t take much to make him start singin’ praises. Bobby’d told him he’d done a good job with his gun work today, and told him again now, same for the text and the case, and said that he deserved a little reward. Cas had thanked him, looking absurdly pleased as he set aside _Let Sleeping Rogues Lie_ where he’d been reading it at Bobby’s desk. Bobby had noticed that things like that seemed to set him off, letting him join the little rituals and habits and such that he and the boys did. Guessed it was the acceptance that he liked or something. Bobby had grabbed a full bottle of whiskey and plonked it down in front of him—but he hadn’t even gotten a chance to grab two glasses when one of his phones rang.

_Balls._ Rolling his eyes, he’d stumped back to the phones, and he’d rolled his eyes again when the familiar and clueless voice of Garth had sounded in his ear. Great.

It had taken five full minutes to convince that braindead jackass that no, he was _not_ hunting a New-World version of the Loch Ness Monster in a lake down in Florida. He’d finally made Garth double-check to make sure it wasn’t a gator responsible for the sheep deaths and the disappearance of a teenager by the lake, as those overgrown lizards did have a tendency to make themselves at home in water that wasn’t necessarily theirs anymore. Bobby rolled his eyes one last time and hoped he rolled them hard enough for Garth to hear it when he turned on the news and told Bobby, in a rather subdued manner, that a story had just broken about a record-breaker alligator being hauled out of the lake. He insisted he was gonna stick around for a bit longer, just to make sure, but Bobby was pretty convinced that one was just a cigar and told Garth so before hanging up. Shaking his head, he’d snagged two glasses and given them a rinse before trudging back over to the desk.

He’d gotten halfway there when he’d stopped dead, staring in rather stunned disbelief at the scene before him.

There was Cas, blinking a little rapidly, the bottle of whiskey in front of him.

The open bottle of whiskey.

That was now missing over half of its contents.

Rather slowly, Bobby closed the distance between them, deliberately setting the two glasses down and grabbing the neck of the whiskey bottle, swishing around what was left in it.

“It is stronger than I remember,” Cas suddenly said. “But I like it.”

“So…you _did_ drink all of this while I was over there.” Bobby briefly shut his eyes, praying for patience. When he opened them again, Cas was looking rather sheepish.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But…it was warm.”

“Oh, it’s all warm and fuzzy now,” Bobby said, letting himself collapse into the chair opposite and pouring himself a drink, keeping the bottle away from Cas afterwards and immediately capping it. “But you are in a world of hurt, son.”

As he tipped back his first sip, he almost laughed at the alarmed look on Cas’s face. “Why? What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Well, you’re about to learn that self-restraint’s a good thing, for one,” Bobby replied wryly. “And you’re also gonna learn that you have _got_ to stop forgetting you ain’t an angel anymore. Can’t drink whole liquor stores anymore, Cas. That,” he continued, pointing at the bottle, “is about to kick your ass.”

He snorted at Cas’s bleak and fretting look, and then drank the rest of his whiskey before grabbing the bottle to pour another shot. It was gonna be a long night.

* * *

Stage one started up pretty quick.

Cas was hand-wringing and borderline panicky as he waited for whatever horrible things he’d spent imagining would happen to start up. However, Bobby could tell the booze was starting to work as Cas slowly started looking less concerned and more _dippy_.

“Bobby,” he said about fifteen minutes into the wait, “I feel very strange.”

“Mmm,” Bobby grunted. “Anything like you did that first time you got drunk when you were a halo?”

Cas swayed a little where he sat, blinking and looking slightly unfocused. “It’s…no. It’s different,” he replied. He looked up at Bobby. “Is…this all that will happen?”

Bobby snorted. “Nope. May as well enjoy it while it lasts. This is the nice part.”

“I’m not sure that this is nice,” Cas said after a moment, his fingers clutching the couch cushions. “I’m…”

“Trust me, boy,” Bobby cut him off, getting up and grabbing Cas’s empty water glass and heading into the kitchen to get him a refill. “This is _definitely_ the nice part. So enjoy all the warm fuzzies and the whole walkin’-on-air lightheadedness.”

Cas didn’t look like he was enjoying it, but he didn’t look like he was hating on it, either. In fact, he just looked mellow—bit at odds with his usual fretting or confused expressions. “Here,” Bobby sighed, setting the full glass in front of him. “Just keep drinkin’ your water.”

Cas nodded slowly, licking his lips a little and drinking deliberately and mechanically before settling back into his slightly concerned stupor.

_Could be worse_ , Bobby figured. _Could’ve been a giggler._

* * *

Bobby took it back. A giggler would be _far_ more preferable than this.

Fifteen minutes after Cas’s binge, Bobby had been treated to a rather dazed, mellow, almost sleepy ex-angel. About half an hour into it, as the alcohol started partyin’ harder in Cas’s liver, Bobby got a good look at what Dean and Sam had had to deal with the one time Cas had gotten drunk back when he’d still been fully-charged.

“ _No_ ,” Cas slurred, trying to scoot away on the couch but mostly just falling over instead. “I _do not like_ coffee.”

“Too bad,” Bobby replied flatly. “I’m tryin’ to help you, so drink it.”

“It’s _vile_ ,” he spat, trying to stare at Bobby but mostly staring at the bookshelf behind him and looking vaguely cross-eyed. “It’s _bitter_ and tastes _burnt_. I can’t get the taste out of my mouth when I drink it. It’s something _Camael_ would drink.”

“I don’t know who _Camael_ is, let alone what he might drink, but I know what _Castiel_ is drinkin’, and it’s this coffee,” Bobby said through gritted teeth.

“ _No_ ,” Cas repeated. “I don’t want it. I _won’t_. You can’t make me. _You_ can’t make _me_ do _anything_. You’re nothing but a _man_. I’m an _angel_.”

For a second, all Bobby could do was sit there, one eyebrow raised, his lips pursed as he regarded Cas and Cas glared sourly and blearily back, struggling to sit up again.

“Got news for you, boy: You ain’t an angel anymore,” Bobby finally said. “And as long as you live under my roof, I own your ass, and I can make you do whatever I want. Now, you drink this, or things are gonna get ugly. ‘Cause you remember that time you were sick in the bathtub?” He leaned in close. “I still have that shotgun, and it’s still loaded with rock salt.”

Cas’s jaw worked furiously for a moment as he stared balefully up at Bobby, obviously trying to think of something to say. Finally, he just ground out, “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

Bobby sneered at him. “Wanna bet, jackass?” He thrust the full cup at Cas. “Drink it. _Now._ ”

Bobby knew from experience that Cas could hold his own in a staring contest when he was sober. Drunk, though, it didn’t take him long to drop his eyes, but he didn’t drop the attitude, taking the cup and continuing to look incredibly surly.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Cas growled, flopping around on the couch as he tried to get up, his arm out straight as he held his coffee away from himself.

“All right,” Bobby grunted, snatching the cup away from him. “Go on, then.”

“You don’t—I can _keep_ it, I will drink it _in there_ ,” Cas ground out, finally managing to get to his feet and swaying on the spot.

_You have got to be kidding me._ “No, your old friend John will drink it,” he said flatly. “How stupid do you think I am? Go take a piss, and then get your butt back out here and drink your coffee—and if you aren’t out in two minutes, I’m comin’ in after you armed with a funnel and a tube. This is goin’ in you one way or another, Cas. I don’t give a shit that you’re too drunk to know right now that I’m just tryin’ to help. Now go.”

Cas jutted his chin out at him, trying to give him a fiery angelic death glare but mostly just looking like a petulant little snot. Then he just collapsed backwards onto the couch again.

“I changed my mind,” he declared, doing his best to look defiant as he thrust out his hand, demanding the cup again.

“You piss on my couch and I’ll kill you,” Bobby threatened, handing him the coffee back.

Cas looked like he was trying to come up with something terribly clever and crushing, and Bobby was unsurprised when he couldn’t. Instead, he just raised the cup to his lips and tipped it back, shooting daggers at him the whole time.

When he lowered the cup again, Bobby rubbed his forehead, trying to decide whether or not it was time to actually get that shotgun. “Cas,” he growled, “ _drink it._ ”

“I _did_ ,” Cas barked back at him. “Didn’t you see?”

“I saw you tip the cup back and _pretend_ to drink it, because you apparently think I’m as big an idjit as you. I’m not kidding about that rock salt, boy.”

“I’m not a boy,” Cas muttered sullenly.

“No, you’re nothin’ but a big baby,” Bobby replied, folding his arms across his chest. “Now I’ll tell you right now that if I have to do an airplane with that coffee, I’ll hijack it with terrorists and send it crashing into your lap.”

Cas obviously had no clue what he was talking about, but at least he seemed to understand the words “coffee” and “lap”. He brought the cup up again, and this time he drank it; Bobby could tell from the way his mouth twisted and his eyes squinched up.

“And don’t you dare say ‘there, you drank it,’ ‘cause you’re drinkin’ all of it,” Bobby quickly added when Cas looked like he was about to set the cup aside and declare himself done.

Judging by the fact that he got yet another glare for that, he was right.

_God_ , Bobby thought. _Now I know why Dean never lets Cas drink._

* * *

Two hours into it, Bobby realized that he’d jinxed himself.

He’d endured nasty, spiteful, and incredibly _stupid_ comments from surly Cas for about forty-five minutes as they fought back and forth over the coffee. However, Bobby definitely noticed that they became more and more spaced apart as time went on, and he appeared to be settling into a stupor. Bobby figured he’d be passing out soon, and then made his mistake—for a brief second, he thought the worst was over, that Cas would just go to sleep and wake up with the mother of all hangovers and that’d be the end of it.

Well, that’s what Bobby got for forgetting that if it weren’t for bad luck that he’d have none at all. No sooner had he thought things were winding down when Cas broke the silence.

“Bobby.”

Bobby glanced up from his book; Cas was slumped forward, his hands dangling between his knees, his gaze completely unfocused.

“What?” Bobby replied, craning his neck a little and frowning at the still half-full cup of coffee; dammit, he told him to drink that. Was it gonna be that he couldn’t even read to pass the time now, he had to just sit there and stare at him and tell him every ten seconds to drink up?

“Bobby,” Cas repeated, wetting his lips a bit. “I…”

“You gonna be sick?” Bobby demanded, immediately getting up from his desk and ready to hustle him to the bathroom ASAP—Cas had puked all over the floor once before, way back when he didn’t understand just what that horrible feeling in his stomach meant and didn’t know what was going to happen until it was too late, and Bobby wasn’t gonna clean that crap up again.

But Cas was shaking his head slowly, swaying where he sat. “No…I…” He finally raised his head, struggling to focus on Bobby where he was standing in front of him. “Bobby…I’m sorry.”

Bobby furrowed his brow. “For what? This? My whiskey ain’t exactly expensive, and you’re the one who’s gonna be sorry in the morning, not me,” he shrugged.

“No— _no_ , I’m—Bobby, I’m _sorry_ ,” Cas repeated insistently, slurring his words almost to the point that Bobby had trouble understanding them.

“For _what_ , ya idjit?”

Cas blinked up at him, and a split second before Cas replied, Bobby suddenly recognized that look—beneath the drunkeness, there was that awful, familiar _depression_. And then he opened his mouth: “For _everything_.”

_Aw, hell._ “Cas, don’t,” Bobby said bluntly. “You’re drunk. We went over this already—long time ago—”

“You trusted me,” Cas blurted out, listing to the side. “I was—you were my…my _friends_. You…” His jaw worked for a moment. “You were my _family_. I _loved_ you. _All_ of you. And I…”

“ _Cas_ ,” Bobby repeated, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s done, over, finished. You’re still family and all. Why else you think I let you freeload off of me?”

“I killed them.”

Okay, that one brought him up short. His stock reassurances he had that he always used when he got like this (which usually ended with “now get off your ass and get back to work”) dried up momentarily.

Cas was still staring at him, his eyes starting to get overbright. “I killed them. So many…my…” He dropped his gaze, staring down at his hands. “My other family. My _brothers_. They…” He was starting to blink rapidly. “They trusted me. They—” His head snapped up again, and he was focused again for a moment. “They called me _God’s favorite_. His… _chosen_ son. Because…He brought me back.” He paused. “Twice.”

He slumped again, his eyes sliding shut. “Why? Why would He bring me back…when I…I…”

Bobby was contemplating just trotting out the “mysterious ways” line that Cas himself threw at Dean back when they first met, because if it was good enough then, it should be good enough here, when Cas suddenly swung his head up again, his eyes wide.

“Do you know who I am? _What_ I am?” He didn’t wait for Bobby’s answer. “I’m _Lucifer_.”

“No,” Bobby said, immediately and firmly. “You aren’t—”

“I _am_ ,” Cas insisted. “I’m—I’m the _Devil_ , Bobby. My Father’s favorite, the one who declared war upon his brothers to try and become God! _All_ in my Father’s name!”

“Cas—”

“I _murdered_ so many—any angel that wouldn’t bow, I—they died. I _killed_ them. It took a _thought_ to destroy them, and I can’t…I can’t bring them back.” He covered his face with his hands. “Some died…screaming for God to save them. And some…died just screaming _why_.”

Okay—Bobby was not ashamed to admit that he was a little uncertain as to what to _do_ here. It was one thing to comfort Sam after that dumbass had been manipulated and used so that he’d let Lucifer pop out of Hell, but this…was nowhere _near_ that. _All_ the Winchesters from John on down the line had a habit of screwin’ up big time ‘cause everybody has to have a hobby, but Bobby was pretty sure none of ‘em had ever done anything as epic as Cas had.

And while Sam had tried to eighty-six him once ‘cause of that whole “don’t got a soul” thing, Cas had hounded him and his boys across the country, killin’ people left and right. And that included some of their friends and contacts—and, technically, _himself_.

Cas interrupted his reverie. “But here I am.” Bobby glanced back down at him; he was looking at his hands again. “Lucifer defies God and is cast into Hell, locked in a cell for eternal torment. I defy God…murder _so many_ of His children, human and angel alike, claim I _am_ God, and He… _why am I here?_ ”

His hands flew up to grasp at his hair, tugging there, as Bobby tried to find something, _anything_ to say at this point, but Cas just wasn’t _stopping_. “Why am I not dead? Why am I not in _Hell_? I—I’ve done _so much_ …and yet He gives me life again, leaves me here, free…”

His head snapped up again, and he wobbled dangerously, threatening to fall over again, but he held steady, staring as hard as he could at Bobby as drunk as he was.

“Or maybe that’s it,” Cas said, his voice almost a whisper. “Maybe that’s _it_. God brought me back _powerless_ and _human_ so I…” He pressed the back of one hand against his mouth. “I sleep now—so I dream,” he continued, muffled now. “So I…I _see_ it, over and—sometimes it’s the slaughter in Heaven. They’re all dead—I try to bring them back, but no. Other times it’s…breaking _Sam_ and seeing him— _suffer_ …seeing _you_ …there, dead. Feeling the souls—all of them tearing— _eating_ me—and then…then I see it…” He shuddered violently. “I see— _killing Dean_ —just like before…”

He dropped his hand; his arm flopped limply to his side. Bobby just stared, his brain still kinda stuck on that last one.

When he and Sam found Dean lyin’ there on the edge of the crater, dazed and shaken but still in one piece, they’d just assumed that he’d made it out alive. They’d figured something must have gone down differently than they’d imagined. Neither Cas nor Dean had ever talked about that night, but Bobby had a feeling he just found out one of the details—and it wasn’t exactly a good thing.

“But then I wake up.” Cas’s voice snapped him out of it once more. “The dreams end.” Cas’s eyes became disturbingly focused. “And I have to…have to face _you_. _All_ of you.”

He turned away. “I have to face you and know how I…betrayed you. Chased you. I killed—I killed your friend. That crea—that _woman_ , from Purgatory. You knew her. And I… _gutted_ her. I remember how you—” Cas throat clicked as he swallowed. “Perfect punishment. To come from nightmares and see you three—see this world that I tried so hard to destroy. And to get…only what I deserve…hatred…Bobby—”

Okay. That got him moving. He finally stopped standing there like a stump and sat down next to Cas, getting a firm arm around his shoulder. “Cut it out, Cas—this is crap,” he said gruffly. “You know I don’t hate you. We already went into that.”

“ _Why?_ ” Bobby grunted a little in surprise when Cas wheeled on him, all up in his face, close enough to smell his distillery-breath. “Bobby, why don’t you— _why don’t you hate me?_ Why do you say that? _Why?_ I—” His hands came up, clinging at his jacket. “I _killed_ your friends, I tried to—I tried to kill _you_ , I _did_ kill you! I killed—I killed you, _I killed Dean_! It’s my fault— _it’s all my fault_ you—they’re _cursed_ , they bear the _Mark of Cain_ , because of _me_! I _used_ you, _all of you_ —”

“You screwed up, Cas,” Bobby managed, trying to avoid getting yanked down to Cas’s level, but the moron had a tight hold on his jacket. “Ain’t gonna tell you otherwise, but dammit, we went over this—you _know_ we don’t hate you—”

“ _But you should!_ ” Cas’s voice cracked as he tried to shout, and there it went, the tears finally started coming—not like they did that night the Cas got dragged back in, but it was enough. “I—I tried to _destroy_ you! I killed your _friends_ , killed _so many_ , and I can’t—I can’t _fix_ it, Bobby— _I can’t fix anything!_ ” His fingers tightened and his chest hitched. “I’m _worthless_! I’m so weak—slow—if I were still an _angel_ I could do something— _anything_ —but I’m _this_ —”

“That’s right,” Bobby barked. “You’re _this_ —you’re _human_ , Cas. You’re just like _me_ , and _Sam_ , and _Dean_. You’re one of us, and we want you to _be_ one of us, dammit!”

Cas’s eyes were bloodshot and wide, his jaw hanging slack, so Bobby took advantage of the silence and continued. “Ever think that maybe all those mistakes you made might be ‘cause you _were_ an angel? I’ve seen how those bozos think—all end games and absolutes, no thought to collateral at all. You were all cold and calculating sons of bitches—and you were different, Cas, but not different _enough_. You still thought like an angel, so when you went for Purgatory, you went all tunnel-vision just like any other angel and all you saw was the goal.”

Bobby managed to twist a little so he could get his other arm up, shifting until he was grasping Cas’s shoulders tightly and past caring that Cas probably wouldn’t remember half of this in the morning. “You did all that ‘cause you _were_ an angel, jackass! Ditching your wings is the best thing that ever happened to you, ‘cause now you _know_ why that’s bad, ‘cause you can _feel_ it. Think you woulda done all that if you’d been human? Think you’d be feelin’ _this_ if you were still an angel?”

Bobby’s grip tightened. “You’re a _human_ now, Cas—and we’re the ones who _stopped_ angels. Angels and demons and monsters can’t do jack shit but break things. Humans are the ones who fix ‘em.”

Cas blinked slowly up at him, tears continuing to leak out of the corners of his eyes. “But…I know humans are…God’s favored children. So why…Bobby, why am I one now?” he whispered. “I don’t deserve…why would God allow me to live and take any part of humanity for myself?”

“You listenin’ to a word I’m saying?” Bobby answered. “To _fix_ things. No, you can’t bring back the dead—and that’s how it should be. You can’t snap your fingers and make things all better in an instant, and it’s good that you can’t. You spent close to a year trying just that and look how that turned out. Now you’re helpin’ me research and learnin’ how to hunt and tappin’ that monster encyclopedia you’ve got in that skull of yours and you’re saving lives—and you’re probably gonna be in it for life, just like almost every hunter out there. A lifetime of huntin’ monsters and protecting humanity—if that ain’t atonement for your sins, I don’t know what is.”

For a couple of seconds, Cas just sat there, staring at him as his boozed-up brain obviously tried to process what he’d just been told. Then, unsurprisingly, he just sort of fell forward, burying his face against Bobby’s chest and getting tears and snot and God knew what else all over his shirt, clinging helplessly, his shoulders trembling as he made choked little noises because he couldn’t seem to breathe and cry at the same time.

“Bobby,” he whispered, his fingers flexing against his jacket. “What if I can’t? I don’t know if I can…”

And unwillingly, Bobby found his mind being dragged into the past, remembering—God, it had to be close to thirty years—because it’d been almost like this, almost the exact same question. It was even on the same damn couch. Only that time, it’d been Dean—pretty much the only time Dean had ever broken down when he was a kid, when John had had a hunt go completely balls-up on him for the first time, and not just the usual screw-ups, either. No, Bobby’d been convinced that John wasn’t coming home that day, even as he’d made calls and sent out the network to bring that bastard back home to his kids, and Dean had come downstairs at the worst possible time, just in time to hear Bobby telling Wayne Carter to bring John home whether it be alive or dead. And Dean, barely seven years old, had tried to be all big and tough, but it hadn’t taken long for him to start crying, and the next thing Bobby knew Dean was letting it all out, and the one thing he’d been worried about had been Sam—because John had given Dean the strictest orders to take care of Sam, and he’d sobbed that he didn’t know if he could do it, and asked what he was going to do if his dad didn’t come home.

The answer he’d given Dean that night didn’t exactly apply, but he could improvise.

“Doesn’t matter whether or not you can or can’t,” Bobby said. “Point is, you’re tryin’. That’s all you can do, so do it. ‘Sides—you aren’t in this alone,” Bobby continued. “You got me and the boys helpin’ you out. Ain’t like we’d just throw you out to fend for yourself.”

Cas sniffed loudly, rubbing his face against Bobby’s shirt. “I never…understood how you…would _do_ this for me…you…Bobby, you help me _so much_ …” he mumbled, his voice muffled.

Bobby couldn’t help but get an arm around him for an awkward hug, letting him cry it out. “Well, you’re family. And you screwed up, yeah, but…” He swallowed hard, and said the words that Sam and Dean had already said over two years ago. “…but I forgive you for all that. Really.”

A weird hiccupping noise escaped Cas, and Bobby guessed he was probably crying a little harder now, but he was just gonna let ‘im. Bobby’d already known about most of his issues—he knew about his guilt complex, knew about his nightmares, knew he was convinced that he was an irredeemable monster, but he felt stupid for not realizing that Cas thought any of ‘em still hated him for all that shit he pulled. He could also admit that felt a little uncomfortable with this whole thing because his mind and body were going on memory, so now he was kinda lightly rocking a drunk and grown man that was crying all over him. _Well, he’s not exactly a grown man_ , he thought wryly.

They sat in relative silence for a bit, Bobby waiting for him to tire himself out so he could put him to bed, but Cas broke it by talking again. “I didn’t deserve…forgiveness…but you…gave it anyway. I still can’t…understand…” he managed.

“Like I said,” Bobby shrugged, and the motion caused Cas to look up, “you’re family. Bit different than for most people.”

“You’d _let_ me be family, though? After…everything?” Cas said blearily.

“Cas, just ‘cause you ain’t blood doesn’t mean we don’t think of you like that. And you don’t _pick and choose_ your family, and that includes the ones you adopt in ‘cause you care about ‘em—you’ll take ‘em no matter the stupid mistakes they make. How many times are we gonna have to show you that we forgave you and still think you’re family? Think I’d let you sleep in on Sundays and teach you how to make cinnamon toast if I didn’t? Think Sam would’ve bought you all those clothes and brought home Indian food for you if he hadn’t already forgiven you for everything you did? Think Dean would be—whatever he is with you?” Bobby stuttered over that last one; just ‘cause he didn’t care what Cas and Dean got up to didn’t mean he felt the need to explicitly spell it out to Cas.

Unfortunately, the wording or whatever he’d said just made Cas light up, and he blurted out, “Bobby, Dean—Dean is—Dean is _wonderful_.”

_…Shit._

“Bobby, after _everything_ I did, he—he _forgave_ me and he—how could he forgive me so _completely_?—but Bobby, it was _more_ than forgiveness, he—he _touched_ me—”

Bobby was officially done holding Cas now—if Cas was gonna start talking about _Dean_ , Bobby was _not_ gonna be touching him while he did it. So he pushed him off, prying his hands off and putting him back on his side of the couch. Cas barely noticed, though—because he was still talking about Dean. And Bobby really, really wished he wasn’t.

“There can’t _be_ a human more forgiving and—and _compassionate_ as Dean,” he was ardently (and almost incomprehensibly) telling the floor. “I—Bobby, he _touches me_. He touches me and kisses me and—” His gaze became starry and stunned. “I never understood—human sex seemed so boring and—it is just _repetitious_ —but now, when—Bobby, when Dean brings me to orgasm, I can’t…I can barely _breathe_. I even screamed the first time, but now have to be quiet because Dean was angry when I did—but it’s so—so _hard_ , I almost _can’t_ —”

Bobby was all for Cas being quiet. In fact, he thought that was a great idea. Because he so, _so_ didn’t want to hear this. He knew that Cas and Dean got up to no good, but _why_ did the booze decide to tell Cas that Bobby wanted to hear all about the details? “That is just…really great for you, Cas,” he said flatly, squeezing his eyes shut and willing Cas to stop talking.

He didn’t. “He does that…for _me_ ,” Cas breathed rapturously. “But…” He abruptly went bleak. “I can’t do it for _him_. He won’t _let_ me. I’ve—” Cas swallowed, wobbling where he sat. “I’ve touched his skin, kissed him—his _heart_ , Bobby, I have felt it _beat_ , under my hand…” Back to rapturous. “When he is _with_ me, it beats so hard, and fast, and it—it is because of _me_. I know it is—I can feel my own, when Dean touches me, and his—it does the same. Because of me— _for_ me. I know I can please him—but—” And right back to depressed. “He won’t let me touch his penis. Even after all the other ways I’ve touched him, he stops me when I try to touch it. He never lets me. He won’t. He just… _leaves._ ”

Bobby really, truly, honestly wanted to know what he’d ever done in his life to deserve this—just so he could make sure he never did it again. But he could not comprehend what on earth he’d done in his lifetime to warrant _this_. He knew he’d done some pretty bad shit in his life, but _dammit_ , this was the _living end_! Well, after this, he’d definitely served time, that was for sure. This was absolving _all_ of his sins, thank you very much, past, present, and future. 

“I _want_ to please him, Bobby,” Cas said passionately (and drunkenly). “I want to make him—make him _happy_. I want—to make him feel the way he…makes _me_ feel.” Crap—Cas swung his head around to stare at him, looking weepy again, only now he was talking about sex. With _Dean_. “Why won’t he let me bring him to orgasm, Bobby?” he asked miserably.

Bobby sat there for a second before he realized that Cas wasn’t being rhetorical—no, he wanted Bobby to tell him the answer to this sweet mystery of life. _Balls._ “I—that’s just the way it is, Cas,” Bobby finally replied. “Dean’s—he’s just—”

“I love him,” Cas blurted out, cutting him off. “I _love_ him, Bobby. I was an angel, I didn’t think I could, but I _can_ , and I _do_ —I love him more than _anything_. I love _you_ , and _Sam_ , but I can’t—I can’t _help_ it, I love Dean _more_. And I want to _show_ him—but he—he’s never _home_ , and he always _leaves_. I want him _here_ , but he _isn’t_ ,” Cas went on, giving a little hiccupping sob at the end.

_Oh,_ God _. Lemme guess, he never takes you out anywhere nice, either_ , Bobby inwardly grimaced. “Dean’s a hunter, and you know that. It’s a job—you sayin’ you _don’t_ want him out there savin’ people? You know that’d piss him off but good if you tried to pull that on him,” Bobby informed him.

“But what if he _dies_?” Cas’s eyes were wide, if a bit crossed. “He’s died before—what if—Bobby, he’ll be _gone_ , and I can’t _save_ him, and _I’ll never see him again_.”

“That’s kinda how death works, Cas,” Bobby grumbled. “But if it makes you feel any better, Dean has a habit of not stayin’ dead.”

Cas stared unhappily at him. “That doesn’t make me feel better,” he said sadly. “I just want to _be_ with him—so much—Bobby, when will he be home?”

_Dammit, not this again._ “I don’t know,” Bobby grunted. “Think the boys just finished a case, so they’ll be heading out on a new one—”

“Why won’t he come _home_?” Cas moaned. “It’s been—it’s been so long—”

“It’s been less than a month, dumbass,” Bobby interrupted, unable to take much more of this. “You’ve gone longer without your damn hit. He’ll be home whenever he and Sam get a chance to come home just like it always is. Now shut up about it.”

“Does Dean love _me_?” Cas suddenly asked. “I love him, but—what if—”

Goddammit, how the hell was he supposed to answer _that_ one? Why was Cas thinking he had the answers to these at all?! Bobby didn’t care how drunk he was—now he was just being stupid. Truth be told, Bobby had no _clue_ whether or not Dean _loved_ -loved Cas. He sure as hell must be feelin’ _something_ serious for him, to make him start battin’ for the other team (well, halfway, at least), but he didn’t get tied in knots the way Cas did. But that didn’t help him right now—like he was gonna tell Cas _that_ while he was in this state.

Fortunately, Bobby caught a break this time. Cas only sat there and stared at nothing for a few seconds before he decided he could answer his own question. “He kisses me and touches me…and brings me to orgasm. He—he _must_ , Bobby. Dean must love me. He doesn’t say—but he _shows_. Yes,” he babbled, nodding to himself. He looked ridiculously exalted, and then breathed, “Bobby—he _loves_ me…” but then his face fell _again_. God, the moron was gonna give himself whiplash if he kept going through his emotions like this… “But…I want to show _him_ , Bobby. I want him to _know_ that I love _him_ —so much—but he won’t _let_ me. And I—I’m not allowed to _talk_ —”

“Dean knows you love ‘im,” Bobby interrupted. “Trust me. He knows.”

“How? If I can’t—” Cas tried to start.

Bobby cut him off again. “Because _everybody_ knows,” he said flatly. “You don’t need to—to _touch_ Dean for him to know that you’re head-over-heels for him. He is _aware_ , just like everybody else is aware.”

Cas stared at him, still looking pitiful. “But I want to _show_ him, Bobby. I want to pleasure him,” he whined soppily.

“Well, if Dean feels like it, he’ll let you,” Bobby finally said; he was pretty sure that he was only staying sane right now was because some part of him simply refused to believe that he was actually having this conversation. “Just…don’t push him. Don’t go—” Bobby raised his eyes skyward and continued, “— _grabbin’_ him without…you know. Permission.”

“Then should…should I ask if I can touch his penis?”

“ _No._ You should never ask that _ever_ ,” Bobby immediately replied while dearly wishing he could add on “and never _say_ that again to me, either”, but knowing better.

A little silence again, and then Cas licked his lips, blinking slowly. “Bobby…”

Bobby briefly closed his eyes and braced himself for whatever fresh hell Cas had planned for him next. What, would he start talkin’ about how he thought of Dean whenever he touched _himself_?

Cas’s jaw was working, but nothing was coming out. Bobby narrowed his eyes at how _concerned_ Cas looked, but then he noticed that he was also looking…a little pale, and looked like he was wetting his lips quite a bit, actually, and was he getting a bit sweaty…?

Bobby put it together just as Cas opened his mouth again. “Bobby…” His voice was shaky. “I don’t…feel well…”

_Shit!_ Bobby shot up off the couch, reaching down and hauling Cas to his feet, not being gentle about it at all. “Come on—move your damn legs!” he barked, practically dragging Cas at top speed to the bathroom he was in such a hurry. But Cas managed to get his legs working about halfway there, helping to speed up the process, and he got Cas in the bathroom and kneeling in front of the toilet within seconds.

Cas, however, just clutched at the side, trembling, his throat working hard as he swallowed over and over. “Bobby…I don’t—I don’t like…vomiting,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t want—”

“You’re gonna do it one way or another, Cas,” Bobby said grimly. “May as well let go.”

“I—I don’t—”

And that was as far as he got. Bobby wrinkled his nose and sighed, turning away as Cas’s gut finally said it had had enough and he retched, loudly and messily, into the john. Didn’t stop at one, either—Cas was like that. He didn’t puke very often, but when he did, it was pretty epic. He’d throw up once and the taste would make him gag again, so he’d throw up more—pretty vicious and disgusting cycle, if you asked him.

Bobby just grimly waited it out; no way he was gonna just drop Cas in here by himself and let him choke on his own vomit, ‘cause he was drunk enough (and dumb enough) to do it. And anyway, it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d sat next to Cas in the bathroom while he heaved.

After what seemed like forever, he was finally down to just weak coughing, nothing else coming up. Cas just sat there, shaking, panting hoarsely like he always did after he puked his lungs out, clinging feebly to the porcelain god.

But it wasn’t too long before he recovered enough to talk again. “B-Bobby…” he rasped, his voice echoing a little in the bowl. Bobby didn’t answer, just grabbed the threadbare old hand towel on the rack and ran it under cold water from the sink. “I…” Cas continued, still visibly trembling. “…my nose hurts.”

Bobby could not help but chuckle a little sardonically at that one. “Yeah, that’ll happen,” he said, reaching down next to him for the roll of toilet paper. He quickly got a nice handful and pressed it into Cas’s hand where it was clutching the rim of the bowl. “Here—take it. Clean yourself off,” he sighed, and, flushed the toilet while he was there. Then he grabbed the wet towel, wringing it out so he could fold it in half. Cas didn’t move as Bobby tugged his shirt collar down a bit, but he did jump a tad when the cool and damp rag was suddenly on the back of his neck.

“You just gonna sit there and hold that tissue?” Bobby asked wryly. “I ain’t wipin’ your nose for you. Come on, you look horrible. Blow your nose—that’ll go a long way to makin’ you feel better.”

Cas sat still for a moment longer as Bobby roughly rubbed him with the rag, but then his arm finally moved and he started wiping his face off, even managing to weakly blow his nose. Then he just let the messy toilet paper fall into the bowl, just kind of hanging there with his cheek pressed against the rim, his eyes shut.

_Idjit_ , Bobby sighed internally.

He didn’t say anything else, and neither did Bobby—not for a few minutes, at least. However, when Bobby spotted Cas starting to list to the side, he knew what that meant. No way was he gonna let Cas pass out on his bathroom floor.

“Come on,” Bobby grunted, reaching over and tugging on his arm. Cas’s eyes fluttered open, and he stared unseeingly at everything. “Get up, Cas. You’re goin’ to bed.”

After a couple of seconds, Cas finally seemed to notice Bobby, as well as notice that he was being hauled back up to his feet. Bobby looped one of Cas’s arms around his shoulder and then started dragging him slowly towards the stairs, irritated that Cas’s feet only seemed to be working about half the time. Well, they had best bump up their capacity—he wasn’t about to break both their necks tryin’ to go up those stairs.

It was a long, arduous journey, but he eventually managed to get him all the way up. Granted, Cas tried to send them toppling backwards no less than three times, but point was they didn’t fall, so things were good. He swung the usual left, scowling when he felt one of Cas’s legs just give up entirely and hearing the sound of him just dragging it behind him as he struggled to walk with Bobby and failed miserably.

Bobby was very glad to finally get to his bedroom, bumping the door open further with his hip as he got him inside, trudging over to his bed. Once he reached the edge, he finally dumped his load, swinging Cas around to let him fall limply on the mattress, the springs creaking loudly when he hit. “Let’s get you under the covers,” Bobby muttered, knowing that if they didn’t Cas would wind up freezing to death in the night because apparently when he powered down, he didn’t downgrade from an angel to a human, but to a reptile.

Dammit, getting him properly in bed was harder than getting him up the stairs. Seemed that once Cas got in a prone position, he didn’t want to move anymore. Bobby finally got him more or less properly in bed, even if he was still clothed, and decided it was good enough. He pulled back, and saw that his decision to leave him like he was was now more or less a necessity—because Cas had passed out.

Bemused, he stared down at Cas, all sprawled out and half-under the covers, his jaw slack, his hair a disaster, and basically just layin’ there being a rumpled, boozy mess. He was gonna be hurtin’ so bad in the morning.

Shaking his head, Bobby turned and left, quietly closing the door behind him on his way out.

* * *

Bobby had just finished adding a little spice to his morning coffee (shot of espresso had nothing on a shot of Wild Turkey) when he heard the car.

He frowned—he definitely recognized that throaty growl. That was the Impala, which meant the boys were back. Except they weren’t due back yet—Sam had called yesterday afternoon, saying they wanted to wrap up their current hunt and then ship out for a new one. What the hell were they doing here?

Bobby’s first inclination was to be concerned—usually when they showed up unannounced, it meant somebody was hurt or they’d gotten in trouble with the law and needed to lay low. Wouldn’t that just be spectacular—yes, that’s just what all of them needed, particularly him, seeing as he had been gearing up to take care of the dumbass upstairs when they’d pulled up.

But then the door swung open and the first words Bobby heard were Dean snarling at Sam. “I swear to God, you say that you told me not to park in that alley _one more fuckin’ time_ , I’m gonna knock your fucking teeth down your throat!”

Dean stomped into view after that, glaring fiercely at the entire world while Bobby just leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee and giving him a rather wry look. “So, happy hunting?” he asked dryly.

“Some shit-sucking son of a bitch keyed my car,” Dean spat without preamble.

Bobby sighed. Ah—so somebody _was_ hurt. Butthurt, anyway. “Well, you’ll fix her up in no time, I’m sure,” Bobby said, giving a wave to Sam as he stumped inside behind Dean, looking pinched and bitchy. Bobby could understand that one—no doubt Dean had been unbearable the entire ride back to his place. “More importantly,” Bobby continued, “did you get the ghost?”

“Yes, we got the ghost,” Sam answered. “Bones were hidden in an abandoned apartment complex, stuffed there by the guy who killed him, probably. Went down without too much of a fuss, though it did start trying to throw around what little furniture was left in the building. We got it before it could do any damage to us.”

Bobby nodded. “You boys cut somebody off in traffic to make ‘em come after you, or something?”

Sam shook his head. “No—it was just in a really bad part of town. Pretty sure we would’ve gotten vandalized no matter where we parked—or worse, carjacked. I say we got lucky with just a keying,” Sam said loudly, glaring at Dean, who just shot him the finger in response as he poured himself a shot of Bobby’s whiskey.

Bobby just snorted and shook his head. “Sorry that had to happen anyway. Sam bring your bags downstairs; I’ll help you with the laundry. May as well get that started while you’re here.”

Sam did grab the bags, though Bobby did not miss how he was looking confused. “Why us? Is Cas sick again or something?” he asked, handing one to Bobby.

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” Bobby replied wryly. “Poor bastard is probably feeling sicker than a dog right now—seeing as he almost straight-up Belushied a bottle of whiskey last night.”

Sam winced. “Oh, jeez—how did—”

“ _What?_ ”

The harsh demand from the kitchen made both of them jump a little. There was Dean, his fingers tight around his now-empty glass as he stared at Bobby.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “He got drunk last night. Forgot about his limits and sucked down almost a whole bottle—” Bobby started.

“And you fucking _let him_?!” Dean snarled, slamming his glass down. “You just let him do it?!”

Bobby blinked. “No, I _didn’t_ ‘let him’,” he replied indignantly after a second. “I turn my back for barely three minutes and he’s chugged it.”

“You should’ve kept an eye on him, then!” Dean barked furiously. “Goddammit, Bobby, we’ve kept him off that shit for over two years and then you just throw the liquor cabinet at him!”

“Throw the—boy, we were sitting down to have _one drink_ , I didn’t just drop a crate of whiskey in his lap!” Bobby answered heatedly.

“That dipshit doesn’t have any fucking self-control!” Dean just kept ranting. “You can’t just—where is he?! Is he upstairs?!” But he didn’t wait for an answer—instead, he just went charging past them, ignoring both Bobby’s and Sam’s demands that he stop, thundering up the stairs with them hot on his heels.

Neither of them could catch Dean in time—he hit Cas’s door first, and he swung it open so hard it hit the wall. The light blazed on immediately afterwards, and by the time Sam and Bobby got into Cas’s room behind Dean, he was already screaming.

“Oh, yeah, hide under the covers, pretend I’m not here—did you think I wouldn’t find out you went and got drunk last night or something?! Yeah, I found out, you little _shit_!” he bellowed at the huddled lump in the bed.

“Dean, will you calm down?!” Sam shouted as quietly as he could, obviously trying to have consideration for Cas.

Dean just roughly shook off Sam when he grabbed his arm. “You shut up, Sam! Don’t you even think about taking his side on this!” He turned on Cas again. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again, you fucker, do you hear me?! You don’t even _think_ about touching booze again, or I’ll—”

“You’ll _get the hell out of here_ , is what you’ll do!” Bobby yelled, not bothering to keep his voice down like Sam was—Dean was already shouting, so him adding to it wouldn’t make much difference at the moment.

Dean faced him, opening his mouth to obviously start shouting again, but Bobby was _not_ putting up with that, and if Dean thought he was going to, he had another thing coming. “ _Now!_ ” he roared. “You leave him the hell alone! Get your ass downstairs before I _kick it_ downstairs, and don’t you even think I won’t, boy!”

Dean just sat there quivering with rage, looking like he’d dearly like to just keep screaming at everybody, but he eventually just whirled around and stomped back out, his fists balled.

“Sam, you keep him down there,” Bobby growled. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Right—Jesus, what the hell is his problem?” Sam muttered incredulously.

“God only knows—go on,” Bobby huffed, and Sam did as he was told, even going so far to turn off the light again on his way out. Once he was alone, Bobby finally got a better look at the sorry son of a bitch in front of him.

Cas was curled up in a ball, squeezing the blankets over his head and feebly trying to pull a pillow over it too. All Bobby could see of him was one hand and half an arm; the rest of him was buried under the blankets and sheets and pillows from where he’d been trying to hide from what he probably thought was the wrath of God.

Poor sap.

“Cas?” he said quietly. “You still alive under there?”

There was a very long pause, and then, finally, he heard the very raspy, wheezy, and muffled reply. “Bobby…I’m sick.”

Bobby snorted. “No, you’re hungover,” he replied, still keeping his voice low. “You’ll be okay. You remember last night?”

“I…some…it _hurts_ …”

“I know,” Bobby sighed. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

He walked as quietly as he could out of the room, making his way to the bathroom to grab some aspirin and a cup of water, shaking his head the whole way. He wished he had some tomato juice now—he’d dump some Worcestershire sauce and an egg in it and make Cas drink it. But there wasn’t any, so some painkillers would have to do.

When he got back, Cas hadn’t moved an inch. Bobby didn’t turn on the light, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible, and then, after a moment’s thought, pushed the door just about closed because he could already hear Dean and Sam bitching at each other, carrying all the way upstairs to Cas’s room. Then he finally made his way to Cas’s bedside.

“Come on—I’ve got some medicine for ya. You need to take it.”

The lump on the bed didn’t move for quite a while, but Bobby didn’t rush him; he knew the agony he was probably feeling, especially after that jackass charged up here and all but banged a metal pot with a wooden spoon at him. But eventually it did move, the visible hand slowly pushing the blankets and the pillows down, and Bobby just waited patiently until Cas’s face was finally revealed.

He looked like shit, of course, pale and squinting, his sunken eyes all bloodshot and bleary, his stubble patchy, drool crusted on his chin. Bobby extended the hand with the pills first, and Cas feebly reached up to take the proffered medicine. After he finally managed to get them in his mouth, Bobby handed him the glass of cold water. He swallowed down his meds with minimal dribbling down his chin, and Bobby took the water and set it on the table next to the bed when he was done.

“You go ahead and stay up here, Cas,” Bobby whispered. “I’ll take care of the chores for today. You just sleep it off. I’ll bring you some more aspirin later.” He paused, and then spoke again. “Listen—don’t pay any attention to Dean, okay? He’s got a bug up his ass. Don’t know what his problem is, but I don’t care. So don’t go beatin’ yourself up or something, okay? It was an accident. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Cas slowly licked his lips, his gaze going in and out of focus. “Thank you…” he wheezed.

Bobby shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’.”

“No…Bobby…” His fingers flexed restlessly against the pillows as he squeezed his eyes shut again as he pressed his face back into the bed before he started talking again. “I…last night. Did you…what you said. Did…did you mean…”

Bobby snorted quietly. “Yeah, I meant it, ya idjit.” He reached down and softly ruffled the flyaway hair on the back of Cas’s head. “Go on and sleep.”

He was turning to leave when Cas spoke again. “Bobby…”

He sighed, turning back. “Yeah?”

There was a pause, and then finally: “…don’t tell Dean. I’m not…supposed to talk about…”

“Boy, trust me,” Bobby muttered, “I am _never_ going to talk about _that_ to anybody. Dean isn’t gonna find out a thing, just like we talked about. Now, speaking of Dean,” he said grimly, “I gotta go talk to him. You go to sleep. Those meds will kick in soon.”

He waited a few seconds, and when no more raspy words came from the bed, Bobby finally turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind him as he did. He didn’t start stomping until he reached the stairs. By the time he got down them and swung into the living room to see Dean still tantruming and sulking while Sam was busy bitchfacing at the kitchen table, he was already right back to pissed off.

“Dean, that was _completely_ out of line,” Bobby growled at him.

Dean’s chin jutted out in defiance. “The hell it was—you saw him up there,” he started immediately.

“Yeah, I saw him,” Bobby replied. “I saw him in complete and utter agony, which _you did not help_ , you little asshat.”

“ _Good_ ,” Dean snarled. “Teach him to lay off the booze permanently.”

“Dean, what the hell—are you even serious?” Sam demanded incredulously, taking the words right out of Bobby’s mouth.

“Yes, I am!” Dean said heatedly. “We’ve all seen him—no restraint, just does whatever he wants, he—” He waved a hand at Bobby. “He eats your damn cinnamon all the time! Once he likes something, he just—he just _eats it_ or _drinks it_ or _does it_ all the time, no thought to—to fucking _anything_! Not about to let a dumbass with no self-control have access to booze, goddammit!”

“Where the hell do you get off talking shit about _anybody’s_ lack of self-control?” Bobby asked flatly.

Dean’s neck flushed red. “Don’t you try and change the subject,” he spat.

“I’m not. I’m simply making the point that _you_ , Dean, bitchin’ about _anybody’s_ drinkin’ habits is about as rich as _me_ doin’ it, you goddamn hypocrite.”

Dean’s jaw was working furiously, the red on his neck creeping upwards, but Bobby didn’t let him start up again, continuing himself instead. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, boy, but I’m only gonna say it one more time— _you leave him alone._ Case you didn’t notice, Cas likes to _avoid_ things that hurt him and make him feel like he’s dyin’. He’s _not_ gonna turn into some drunk.”

“That’s right,” Dean finally said, “because you’re not just gonna hand him whiskey bottles anymore! He’s not drinking ever—”

“I’m not gonna friggin’ baby him and control what he eats and drinks, dammit!” Bobby interrupted. “He’s a grown man, he can have what he wants! Now would you just _drop it_?! I didn’t _give him_ a whiskey bottle and tell him to just drink up! This was just an accident all around, so _stop bitching_!”

For a few seconds, all Dean did was just stand there quivering, probably trying to decide if he wanted to start yelling or maybe just start throwing punches at everybody—and Bobby’d like to see him try, because it didn’t matter how old he was, Bobby could take him any day. But eventually, Dean just spun on his heel, storming past them both and out the door, taking great pains to slam it as hard as he could when he left.

Bobby huffed irritably. “Great. Doesn’t matter where he is in the house, he wants to find some way to make things even worse for Cas—poor bastard probably heard that loud and clear.”

Sam shook his head, staring at the shut door. “I don’t know what that was about. I just…I really don’t.”

“Me neither, and I don’t give a crap. Son of a bitch was being a dick,” Bobby said gruffly. “Wasn’t Cas’s fault that happened,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shouldn’t be taking it out on the angel.”

Sam snorted. “I don’t even know what his deal is. Yelling at _anyone_ for alcohol abuse…and this was only one time, no less.” Sam shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the word of the day on this whole mess.”

Sam glanced over at him. “So he seriously drank almost a whole bottle of whiskey?” he asked.

“Yeah, in about four or five minutes. Not sure how fast he was bending his elbow to do that, but he did it.”

“He’s gotta be _really_ hurting up there, then.”

“Probably. And it’s probably even worse than it was due to your jackass brother.”

Sam laughed once without humor. “Yeah. Very true.” Then he rose and stretched, picking up the forgotten bags of laundry. “So—wanna start these now?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, taking one of them. “May as well—maid’s on sick leave.”

Sam nodded and headed for the basement. Before Bobby followed, he glared pointlessly at the shut door leading out to the garage, where all the crashing and banging told him that Dean was still indulging in his baffling babyfit.

_Idjit._


	3. Easy on My Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a hunt gone wrong, a drunk and depressed Dean needs comfort, and he finally lets Cas give it to him.

_July 2015_

Dean understood that he couldn’t win ‘em all. He knew as well as anyone that he couldn’t save everybody.

It wasn’t a matter of his and Sam’s skill. It was simply the matter of there being more monsters than hunters, and that he and Sam had to spend time struggling to figure out just what they were up against and how to fight it and then finally kill the damn thing—and all during the time they were scrambling around with their thumbs up their asses, whatever it was was just slaughtering innocent people right and left. It just wasn’t really possible to save _everyone_.

Still. When one of the victims of a vengeful spirit was just a kid…a kid that they’d been barely two minutes too late to save…

Reflexively, he cranked the music a little louder.

They were almost to Bobby’s place; they hadn’t really said anything for the whole four-hour drive back. Sam seemed to know Dean had no desire to talk—mostly ‘cause Sam would probably try to tell him how they sometimes just couldn’t save a person and that it wasn’t their fault and Dean really didn’t want to hear it, because it _was_ their fault that kid was dead. They didn’t move fast enough, didn’t connect the dots quick enough, and now he was dead and his parents were devastated and would never really have any idea what happened.

_This job sucks balls_ , he thought viciously.

They’d called ahead, so Bobby knew to expect them. Dean had roughly told him to have dinner and booze waiting, if he’d be so kind. He hadn’t asked any questions, just had said he was doing some research on a case up in Wisconsin and that a break around dinnertime would be just fine. He seemed to know from Dean’s tone that things hadn’t gone as well as they were supposed to, even though Dean had told him they’d gotten rid of the ghost. He was grateful for Bobby’s intuition—he didn’t want to have to explain it.

He sighed, taking a little comfort in the familiar forest of junked cars, navigating the Impala to its usual spot near the back. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he sat still for a moment before hauling his ass out of the car when he heard Sam getting out. After detouring around to the trunk to grab their bag of tricks that needed to be cleaned and reloaded later while Sam grabbed the bags that held their clothes, he trudged inside Bobby’s place after Sam.

Bobby was at his desk with a stack of books in front of him, his feet kicked up and a massive, dusty tome open in his lap. “Hey, boys,” he called. “Food’ll be here in a few.”

“Great,” Dean grunted, going for the more important request he’d put in before leaving and heading straight for one of the unopened bottles of whiskey waiting for him at the kitchen table.

“Thought you wanted to take a break,” Sam commented tiredly, slumping down into a nearby chair.

“I’ll take it when the food’s here; Cas recognized the MO of that beastie that Jerry and Earl are following up in Wisconsin. Looks they’ve run into a harpy of all things, and I’ve got a lead on how to kill it here, so I just sent my girl Friday out for pizza.”

“Hope you told him to get one with everything,” Dean said after he poured a generous shot of hunters’ helper in an empty glass.

“One cheese, one sausage, two pepperoni, and two with everything,” Bobby replied dryly. “That _might_ last us through tomorrow.”

Dean was affronted to hear the warning tone in his voice, which clearly directed at him, and from Bobby’s raised eyebrow it was clear that he was implying that Dean was gonna put away a whole pizza by himself. What, did Bobby think he was five, or something?

He’d eat a whole one if he wanted to.

Dean had just finished his shot of whiskey when the front doorknob rattled again. He glanced up in time to see Cas come wandering in, somehow balancing the stack of six pizza boxes on one skinny arm. Once he was in, he kicked the door shut as Sam made his way over to Cas to relieve him of half of his load.

“Thank you, Sam—hello, Dean,” Cas said, setting the three pizzas he carried next to Sam’s on the kitchen table.

Dean grunted in response to Cas’s greeting, opening boxes until he found one with everything and not waiting for Cas to go to the cabinets and get plates. Once the plate was actually in front of him, he stacked it with a piece from each pizza while Sam was getting beer from the fridge.

He didn’t pay much attention to what Sam and Bobby talked about, mostly ‘cause they were talking about a few details of the hunt and he really didn’t want to think about that. He nodded in thanks to Cas when he gave him a beer, temporarily setting aside his whiskey to have a cold one with dinner. After grabbing half a pizza on his own (just who was the pig here, Bobby?), Cas sat next to him, cracking open a beer for himself. Dean eyed him reflexively, but he’d laid down the law a long time ago—Cas was not allowed more than one beer at a sitting, and so Dean soon went back to his dinner.

Nobody spoke to him while they ate, which was a smart move on their parts. Bobby didn’t ask for too many details other than if they’d been hurt, and if they were sure they’d put the sucker down for good. Sam did all of the answering, leaving Dean to just sit and eat and contemplate those two immutable truths of the world: that life was horrible and everything sucked.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how one looked at it—going by today’s luck, he was going to with “unfortunately”, because everything was unfortunate), that allowed him time to eat and finish quicker than anyone else. He drank the last of his beer before turning to the whiskey again, pouring a shot and starting in on it.

The conversation had dried up by the time he was done with his dinner. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Sam was eating quietly, and Bobby had brought his book to the table. Cas hadn’t said a word since his perfunctory greetings, obviously content to just sit with his boring cheese pizza (that had been one of the funnier moments of his new human life: discovering that Cas hated green peppers). Dean was tempted to retire to the living room, but that would involve getting up and after only one beer and two generous shots of whiskey, he was already settling nicely into that stupor he tended to sink into after a hunt that got fucked and so didn’t want to get up.

In the end, it turned out to be unnecessary. Bobby went back to his desk after he finished eating and Sam joined him soon after. Cas got up after he was done too, quietly clearing the table of the empty bottles and collecting the plates and taking them to the sink so he could wash them and put them away before picking up the two bags that held the clothes he and Sam had taken with them on their hunt. He’d be banging around in the basement shortly, Dean knew, doing the laundry like he always did, because that was one of the many (many, many, _many_ ) tedious tasks he’d been assigned to him by Bobby when the aftermath of the Epic Showdown had finally cleared and Cas had settled in to live here. After three years of it, it was obviously Bobby’s intent to punish Cas for the Divine Skull-Fucking he’d tried to give them by turning him into his live-in maid and making him do every bit of housework in the place. The only problem was that it failed, ‘cause Cas clearly didn’t mind it one bit.

Man. Now that he thought on it, it _had_ seriously been _three years_ now, and he _still_ wasn’t used to Cas being so…domesticated.

Dean poured a little more whiskey into his glass before the first shot was completely empty, rubbing his head a bit. He supposed he should stop after this one—or maybe the next. One more wouldn’t hurt. He could hold his booze, after all, unlike Sammy. All he knew was that he didn’t want to get drunk, because if he got drunk after every bad day he’d never get anything done. _Yeah_ , he thought dully to himself. _One more after this. Then maybe I’ll clean the guns. Or get in on whatever they’re reading over there._

Of course, it only counted as one complete shot when you drained the entire glass. It wasn’t more than one shot if you just sipped the same one and then topped it off again. By the time he’d drained about half of the bottle in a little over an hour, he very much approved of this logic. The world was nice and muzzy—he _wasn’t_ drunk, but things were definitely muted and dulled around the edges. He tipped back his glass and drank the last sip, curling his tongue along the bottom of the glass to get ever last drop, and decided then that he didn’t need the second drink after all. He set the glass down on the table and pushed it away from him, not bothering to take it to the sink; Cas could take care of it tomorrow morning. He did cap the bottle, though, before heaving himself up from the table and shuffling into the living room.

He glanced around, vaguely surprised to see that there was only one occupant. “Where’d Bobby run off to?” he asked Sam.

Sam raised his eyes from the book he was reading. “Went downstairs. Said he had some work to do. You know how he is when he gets going on a case. He’ll hole up in there with his books and a bottle of Jim Beam and won’t stop ‘til he finds what he’s looking for or just passes out at the desk,” Sam replied.

“Mmm—I don’t know about you, but passing out sounds like a damn good idea right about now,” Dean sighed, stretching a little. “You want the couch down here?”

Sam flicked his gaze sideways to the furniture in question. “You sure you don’t want it? It’s the bigger one,” Sam said.

Dean shook his head. “Nah. It’s fine. I got it last time, you take it.”

“Well, don’t complain to me if you wake up with a bad back after being crammed on that little one upstairs,” Sam said, closing his book.

“Not all of us are beanstalk-dwelling freaks, Sammy.”

Sam snorted. “Has it ever occurred to you that I’m actually the only normal-sized person here, just trapped in a land of midgets?” he asked dryly, to which Dean just rolled his eyes. Sam rose from the desk, popping his neck. “If everyone else is going to bed, I may as well, too.”

“Cas already crash, then?” Dean asked off-handedly.

Sam shrugged. “Guess so. He went upstairs about half an hour ago.”

Dean grunted. “‘Night, then, Sam.”

He turned to leave, but his spine stiffened when Sam spoke. “Hey, Dean,” he said, and Dean knew that tone—Sam was about to impart some Words of Wisdom, and Dean did _not_ want to hear them. He turned around, his jaw tight.

Sam stared at him, obviously wanting to talk. But Dean was vaguely surprised when he just closed his mouth again and shook his head. “Nothing. ‘Night,” he sighed.

Dean was half-tempted to impart a few words of wisdom of his own to Sam for even considering trying to talk him about tonight’s disaster, but opted out of it because his crushing retorts lacked their usual panache when he’d been drinking like this. As such, he simply gave his brother a glare before trudging his way up the stairs.

Once he hit the top he had to pause, because he couldn’t help but notice—the south bedroom door was shut, but he could see the dim light at the bottom. Cas was still awake. Not that it mattered if he was, because Dean had _not_ been wondering about it in the first place. Dean wanted to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth, because even tipsy he knew it was a bad idea to fall asleep with whiskey mouth because he’d regret it in the morning, and then he wanted to go collapse on his tiny couch and sleep this day off and try to forget it ever happened.

Well, that explained why he turned left instead of right, didn’t it? That was the only thing he hated about booze—it tended to make it Opposite Day.

Dean didn’t bother knocking because Cas wouldn’t care; besides, he never bothered with giving anyone else their privacy, so why should Dean give any to him? He swung the door open, pausing in the doorway when he spotted Cas sitting at the table, one of Sam’s shirts in front of him. Oh, yeah—that one had gotten torn when he’d snagged it on a piece of splintered wood in that haunted house. So naturally, Cas would be the one to grab a needle and thread and sew it up, like he always did.

Christ, that was _still_ weird. Dean didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. It didn’t matter that it had been three years, it just seemed _wrong_ to watch Cas, the Angel of the Lord, being Bobby’s little housewife who washed his dishes and did his laundry and organized his books and mopped his floors and was a regular seamstress—hell, Dean still couldn’t get over the fact that Cas _knitted_. What the _fuck_? What next, would he start sending him and his brother off with sack lunches when they went out on jobs and bake cookies for them when they got back? Shit—he already _did_ bake them cookies for when they got back.

Dean blinked, suddenly realizing that Cas was looking at him, frozen mid-stitch. He coughed, stepping fully inside the room and shutting the door behind him. “Hey, Cas,” he mumbled.

“Dean,” he nodded, and then turned back to his work.

Dean stared sourly at him for a minute—he was at the table where Dean had wanted to sit, so of course that only left one spot for him to go. Now he wished he’d brought the bottle of whiskey up with him, he mused, as he sat down on the edge of the bed, teetering a little when he landed too close to the edge and righting himself with a scowl. It would’ve given him something to do while Cas played Mrs. Cleaver. ‘Course, it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t like he was _waiting_ for _anything_.

“Sam may want to consider throwing this shirt away and buying a new one.” Cas’s voice jolted him a little, and he looked back up to see Cas picking up his scissors. “It’s getting to the point where repairs are useless,” he continued.

“You did fine,” Dean said, watching as Cas shook the shirt out and folded it with that same mechanical precision with which he did everything he was taught.

Cas set the shirt aside and went about putting his needle and thread back in the sewing kit he used. Dean just kept on watching him, the alcohol making him rather stare-y; the jacket Cas usually wore was slung over the back of his chair, leaving him in just his jeans and a t-shirt. His feet were bare, his boots tucked away over by the door. His room was meticulously clean, as usual—Dean knew that Sam and Bobby had both told him not to leave his shit around the house, and, well, he’d been given an order so he followed it to the letter. It didn’t hurt that even after three years here Cas really didn’t have much by way of _things_ to leave lying around in the first place.

Cas snapped his kit closed and tucked it away in the desk drawer before turning to face him. Dean was displeased to see that the _look_ was there, all tinged with concern. “Are you all right, Dean?” he asked quietly.

Dean snorted, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Oh, I’m _fine_ ,” he growled. “I’m great. It’s an eight-year-old kid who wanted to impress his friends by going in the supposedly haunted house who isn’t, ‘cause he’s _dead_.”

He hadn’t really meant to say that because he hated talking about shit like this, but he’d said it anyway. Damned whiskey. At least he never got as talky as Sam did when he got drunk. But he still hadn’t wanted to say it, and he _shouldn’t_ have said it, because there went Cas’s big sheep’s eyes and _dammit_ , now he was getting up and coming over. Who asked him, anyway?

Cas still wasn’t talking (because he never did; Cas had never gotten the hang of ridiculous comforting words and so he just kept quiet, but in this case Dean felt it was a good thing, because God knew what stupidity Cas would try to say), and the bed creaked as he sat down beside him, his hands on his knees. Dean didn’t return the look Cas was still giving him, that same focused intensity that never wavered and that Dean would _never_ get used to. Why couldn’t he just look at Dean like a normal person? Why did he always have to _look_ at him?

Coming up here was a mistake, because now he wanted that second drink after all. What he’d just blurted to Cas had reminded him of everything that was wrong with the world right now and it was just making him angry. Tipsy was not good enough—he wanted to get _drunk_. And frankly, he felt entitled—it wasn’t like he did it often. But after everything that had gone wrong today, he was going to do one thing right and just get _wasted_.

Well, he _would’ve_ gotten up and gotten the whiskey again had Cas’s arm not suddenly draped heavily across his shoulders, a warm weight that somehow managed to be both comfortable and annoying at the same time. It was comfortable only because it gave Dean something to lean on in his slightly wobbly state. It was annoying because why the hell was Cas so cuddly with him, and when he was about to get up and leave, no less? Typical—Cas always sensed what Dean wanted to do and promptly did his best to make sure Dean couldn’t do it.

He risked a glance to his left and saw that Cas wasn’t looking at him anymore; he was just staring at the floor, solemn as ever. Without thinking about it, Dean reached up and wrapped his fingers around Cas’s wrist where it dangled over his shoulder, and the arm around his shoulders tightened a little in response. Dean resisted the urge to snort and went to staring at that spot on the floor that had Cas so enthralled and concentrated on every hunter’s mantra, the one they all had to know in order to survive this job— _you can’t save everyone._

He knew he couldn’t. He _knew_. But that didn’t make it any less horrible _knowing_ that he couldn’t, and knowing that maybe if he’d driven a little faster…

Just…why did it have to be a _kid_?

Dean couldn’t help but slump a little, his eyes closing.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he sat in his stupor, just trying to remember that shit happened and you just had to push it down and move on, no matter how bad it was, but he finally opened his eyes when he realized that he was _leaning_ on Cas, and he could feel Cas’s cheek pressed against his temple where he was leaning back. He scowled—this was not a Lifetime Original Movie. He pulled up, trying to put a little more distance between himself and Cas, but dammit, why did he always have to do that: Cas looked up at the same time and he was all up in his business now, that focused gaze holding him in place. That _always_ happened! Didn’t Cas get personal space at all? He was human now, had been for three years—you think he’d have figured things out! But no, he always just ignored all those silly things like boundaries when they were sitting alone like this and the next thing Dean knew one of them would get close and Cas would reach up and touch his neck because he was _weird_ and then they’d be kissing, which was _also_ weird because he still couldn’t figure out who started that crap or why, because he never came up here to do that crap in the first place.

_Well, at least Sam and Bobby are downstairs_ , Dean thought vaguely, his eyes falling shut again as he breathed against Cas’s mouth.

Cas had pulled his arm from around Dean and now just rested one hand lightly on his shoulder while the other came up and—surprise, surprise, his fingers pressed against the flesh of his throat, seeking out the spot where Dean knew his own pulse was steadily beating. He kissed him again but then moved away, just nuzzling him, his breath puffing against Dean’s cheek. His thumb was stroking slowly and gently up and down his neck, and Dean twisted a bit as one of his hands moved of its own accord to rest on Cas’s waist. Dean reached up with his other hand and wrapped his fingers around the back of Cas’s neck, irritably bringing his mouth back to his own. If Cas was gonna start this shit, then he could stop trying to be all _cuddly_ and just fucking _do_ it.

Both of Cas’s hands were skimming up his throat to curl lazily into Dean’s hair as Dean pressed against him. He felt Cas leaning backwards across the bed, pulling Dean with him as he went. He maneuvered so he wouldn’t land on top of him (mostly, anyway), instead coming to rest beside Cas. He supposed he should try and take his boots off, but he really didn’t want to move at the moment—and besides, who said anything was gonna happen that would require he have no shoes? _Nobody, that’s who_ , he thought firmly as he slid his hand under Cas’s shirt to rest against the skin of his stomach.

Cas sighed and tilted his head back as Dean pressed his lips against his jaw, moving lower to kiss his neck, which was smooth and soft and Dean could smell a lingering tinge of aftershave on his skin. He deliberately kept his mouth gentle and not releasing the teeth, ‘cause it was all well and good to make Cas writhe, but getting serious like that also tended to make Cas really _horny_ , and he didn’t want that right now, because this was fine, dammit. They didn’t have to do anything else besides this, because he didn’t come upstairs to—to do _anything_.

One of Cas’s hands was stroking down his back, warm through the fabric of his shirt. Dean tensed a bit when his fingers hit the top of his jeans, but he just started back upwards again, not even going under his shirt. Dean rather idly mused how pleasant it was now that Cas understood the word “pace”, because the first few times his sitting with Cas had turned into petting with Cas (dammit), he’d had to contend with an over-eager and gropy ex-angel who went from zero to horny without bothering with all that crap in between. It had taken a few times for Dean to make Cas understand that said crap in between was the actually the stuff that was the most fun.

Dean kissed his neck one more time before finding Cas’s mouth again, his hand going higher up under Cas’s shirt to touch his ribs as Cas gently sucked on Dean’s lower lip. Cas was worming around, trying to scoot right-way-up and fully on the bed—and he was trying to take Dean with him. Dean huffed, pulling back so Cas could move. But then he opened his eyes again and caught sight of Cas’s face, his eyes bright and intent, and before he could stop himself he’d leaned forward again and collided with Cas’s lips and pressed him down into the mattress. Cas’s arms wrapped around him as both of Dean’s hands slid up under Cas’s shirt because he just wanted to touch anything that was soft and warm and _alive_ right now and Cas was right there, after all. Cas _hmmed_ against Dean’s mouth, his fingers curling under the hem of Dean’s shirt in return.

But Cas was still trying to wiggle them completely into the bed, so finally, Dean irritably pulled away, sitting up and reaching down to unlace his boots while Cas swung himself up to lay down properly. Dean clumsily kicked out of his shoes once he managed to get the knots undone and peeled off his socks before climbing fully into bed, but instead of lying down right away he had the very good idea to skip some of the formalities and reached for the bottom of Cas’s shirt, tugging upwards. Cas went along with it, reaching down and pulling his shirt off for him; only then did Dean lay down, resting with his elbows on either side of Cas’s narrow frame.

That was a lot better; Dean wondered why Cas hadn’t just done it in the first place. He stroked down Cas’s sides, snorting in amusement when Cas twitched when he only-sort-of-accidentally dug his thumbs in a little too hard on his ribs; ticklish angel, that wouldn’t ever not be funny in its obscene ridiculousness, and since he was tipsy, it was _really_ funny tonight. Dean ran his hands across Cas’s stomach as he kissed his collarbones, enjoying the way Cas arched under him, before making another executive decision and sitting up to pull off his own shirt and toss it aside. That never failed to please him, having so much skin against his own as he pressed down on Cas again, feeling the way Cas gripped his shoulders tightly and kissed back just as deeply as Dean was kissing him.

Cas sucked in a breath when Dean’s leg slid between his own, but he exhaled in a huff when Dean curled his arms under them and easily rolled them over, effectively tangling their legs up as he did. He didn’t mind, though, and Cas didn’t seem to either as he dragged his mouth across his cheek and down his jaw and to his throat. Cas’s fingers dug into his sides as he gently sucked on the spot where Dean’s pulse was beating before licking his way to the hollow at the base, his hair tickling Dean’s chin. Dean kept his eyes closed, feeling Cas’s breath moving lower, allowing a small sound to escape him as he kissed across his chest, pushing his knee up between Dean’s thighs and higher. Dean groped about with one hand until he managed to get his fingers in Cas’s hair as he licked all the way down to his stomach, his hands tracing random patterns all up and down his torso. Damn angel was taking liberties—but right now, Dean simply didn’t _care_.

Dean tugged Cas’s hair a little when he felt him nibbling just below his navel—just ‘cause he was letting him explore new turf didn’t mean he was interested in finding out how low Cas could go. Cas got the message and Dean felt his hands sink into the mattress beside him as he pulled himself back up. He paused halfway there to rub his face against his bare chest like a tousle-headed cat, pressing his cheek against Dean’s breastbone, and Dean couldn’t help his snort of—amusement, confusion, whatever it was, ‘cause Cas was always doing weird stuff like that, but then he raised his head and was moving again. Dean briefly opened his eyes when Cas’s stomach pressed against his own and he felt warm breath puffing against his mouth, and then all he could see were bright blue eyes staring at him and through him and into him, his mouth so close yet not touching his own lips, and where the hell did Cas get off trying to tease him? Dean lurched upward and closed the distance abruptly, but then let Cas press him back down into the pillows, opening his mouth to Cas’s seeking tongue. Dean groped downward, his fingers bumping against the top of Cas’s jeans, and Cas grunted when he slid his hands down further and gave his ass a squeeze. He felt the knee between his thighs push higher, and dammit, Cas needed to quit that because things were getting uncomfortable. He reached up and grabbed Cas’s arms, giving him no warning when he flipped them again, and now it was his turn to make good use of the leg he had between Cas’s—he much preferred to use his knee anyway, because it wasn’t so fucking gay and didn’t involve getting his hand in Cas’s pants.

He didn’t bother hiding his satisfied smirk when Cas groaned as he ground against him, keeping him pinned to the bed. Dean kept it up, too, just slowly rubbing his knee back and forth, over and over again as he leaned down and starting licking and nibbling on Cas’s neck like he hadn’t earlier, and it wasn’t long until he had Cas writhing just like he wanted, his hands fisting against the blankets because Dean was still gripping his arms tightly. He deliberately breathed against the spot he just ran his tongue over, watching the goosebumps form. He kissed his neck one more time before finally letting go of Cas, bracing himself ‘cause he knew exactly what Cas was gonna do right before he did it. Dean pulled back a little and met Cas’s wide eyes, saw that familiar fire in them, then Cas just flung his arms around him and yanked him back down, making out with him like there was no tomorrow, because Dean had discovered that Cas really kind of _did_ just have a switch. Despite being annoyed with it most times, Dean could secretly admit to himself that he really never got tired of finding new ways to turn it on.

Dean’s involuntary moan was muffled by his eager mouth when Cas drove his leg up, paying Dean back a little for the torture he’d inflicted on him—bastard. Dean felt Cas’s hands skimming down his back like they had minds of their own and were frantic to feel anything and everything. Cas was still wriggling under him, obviously wanting to get back on top, but Dean wasn’t ready for that just yet so Cas could just deal with it. Of course, staying here gave Cas access to his ass, and Dean was unsurprised but still annoyed when he felt one of Cas’s hands blunder right down there and just _grab_ him, and dammit, Dean never told him he could do that and yet he always went and did it anyway, and for some reason that pissed him off extra tonight, but it was too much work to reach back there and yank his hand away and tell him to fuck off. So Dean tore away from Cas’s mouth and relished the startled gasp he got when he just sank his teeth into Cas’s flesh, right where his neck met his shoulder.

Well, that was a mistake. He’d nibbled occasionally here and there on Cas, but had never just outright _bitten_ him before, not hard like that. Cas’s wriggling ceased for a single second, and the next thing Dean knew Cas’s grip on him tightened and the room was spinning and suddenly Dean was looking up at the ceiling. Dean didn’t have a chance to contemplate that the bastard had flipped them _again_ , because dammit, wasn’t twice enough, and how had the skinny little creep managed it in the first place? No, there was no time for that, because Cas was bearing down on him, and he was kissing so hard Dean couldn’t fucking breathe, and Cas’s hips were pushed up against his own, grinding and rubbing and _goddamn_ , what the _fuck_ , Cas?! You’d think it was his first time again!

But then he was gone from his mouth and back to his neck, and Jesus, why did he always have to go for his neck, because that always just made Dean forget that he was pissed off about something, and it also made him forget that Cas was still thrusting his hips against him—though it didn’t distract him from the maddening friction it created. Dean kept one hand in Cas’s hair, pressing his mouth against certain spots as one hand traveled down his back to push him down harder as he lifted his hips to meet his, and _shit_ , he needed to get his pants undone, _had_ to get them undone, because this was starting to _hurt_ —

That _did_ hurt—because Cas had just _bitten him back_.

_That sorry son of a bitch!_

Oh, he was gonna pay for that, and he was gonna pay for it _now_.

With a sudden heave, he pushed Cas roughly away, rolling him off and to the side. He didn’t give him any time to reorient himself and figure out what had happened, instead going straight for the waistband of his jeans and yanking impatiently at his fly. He’d show him who was in charge—well, he would if he could _just fucking get his fucking fingers to fucking work_ —

He somehow managed to get Cas’s pants undone despite Cas’s hands getting in the way (probably thought he was being _helpful_ or something—well, screw him, Dean didn’t need help getting someone undressed and he never would) before hooking his thumbs inside his jeans and shoving them down, feeling Cas eagerly helping with that, too, trying to get out of them. Well, he’d be sorry in a minute for being so impatient, Dean was gonna make sure of that. He kept still while Cas struggled out of his jeans, his hand on Cas’s stomach, fingers splayed, but only waited until he heard his clothes flump to the floor when Cas kicked them off of the edge of the bed before he moved again, and without any kind of warning he shoved his hand down the front of Cas’s shorts and grabbed him where it counted.

It amused him, the way Cas jumped, and the amusement made it so he didn’t have to think about having a handful of cock. Instead, he just revved things up with a series of tight and deliberate strokes, smirking at the satisfied sighs Cas was giving as he moved his hips in time with Dean’s hand. _Having fun now, but just you wait_ , he threatened to himself, squeezing on the downstroke and making Cas grunt quietly. He kept his pace steady until Cas was panting before he started slowing down, his grin becoming more vicious as the thrusts of Cas’s hips got more frustrated. Dean had a firm grip on him, though, so Cas couldn’t do much but let him set the pace, which Dean had slowed down to the point that he knew it had to be positively agonizing. Cas was an impatient little douchewad and kept trying to get him to go faster, so Dean just swung one leg up over Cas’s and pinned him, making him sit still, and Dean barely kept from laughing at the aggravated huff Cas let out when he did. He wasn’t used to this—Dean had never bothered drawing things out, because he hadn’t ever had any reason to. Well, he had a reason now—making Cas squeak was a _damn_ good reason.

Dean shifted, using his weight to coax Cas onto his back and keeping his own leg across Cas’s thighs. He’d pretty much stopped moving at this point, just flexing his fingers and squeezing him into submission any time Cas got insistent. Dean kept his hand where he was when he leaned down again, bumping Cas’s chin with his forehead to get him to make room for him. He gently pressed his lips against the skin of his throat, leisurely kissing his way to that spot that always drove Cas crazy. Once he reached it, he started moving down south again, slow and easy-like, his tongue stroking in time with his hand.

He could feel Cas’s moans now as much as he heard them, and he had half a mind to tell him to keep it down. Instead, he just scraped his teeth against Cas’s flesh, biting down again, though not as hard as last time, and grinning against the sweat-damp skin when one of Cas’s hands knotted in his hair. He finally let up a little, though he didn’t pick up his own pace—no, he was gonna let Cas do all the pace-setting. He could feel Cas trembling, straining against him as he took advantage of his sudden freedom, but Dean just kept doing what he was doing, Cas’s movements stuttering and desperate down south but Dean keeping things leisurely up north, running the tip of his nose along his jaw before finding his mouth again, and he found himself being kissed with bruising force.

Dean could only grin at the whine Cas let out when he suddenly pulled his hand away altogether, bringing it up to spit in his palm, but then Cas jolted satisfyingly when Dean shoved his waistband down so he could take him in hand again, and when he gave his wrist a little twist as he started to move, he both heard and felt Cas rapturously breathe his name against his lips and he couldn’t help his own delicious shivers in response.

His own pants had finally reached a crisis point, and he managed to get his free hand down to his own zipper, somehow getting his pants undone and sighing in relief when the pressure lessened. He slid his knee back between Cas’s legs and tight against his crotch so he could work everything at once, pushing his knee up in time with his hand. Both of Cas’s arms were around him now, his fingers flexing with every movement Dean made, his breath coming in those short, helpless wheezes that never failed to entertain him. He was still stroking him oh-so-slowly, and with a smirk of anticipation Dean stretched his thumb up for a slow circle and then a quick prod at the tip, and the helpless choking noise Cas made was all kinds of pathetic, but given that it was Cas making it, Dean loved hearing it probably more than he should’ve. Cas leaned up to try and kiss his neck and that’s when Dean sped up again, fast and hard, and Cas fell right back down against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut as his back arched and he whimpered, his head rocking from side to side. Dean didn’t stop, either, just kept going, unable to stop his own hips from moving against Cas’s, and he could tell that Cas was close, just by the way his chest kept hitching and how the thrusts of his hips were getting wilder—

And that was precisely why he just stopped cold, his hand low and tight on him and his leg pressing hard against Cas’s thighs so he couldn’t do anything, and the tiny suffering cry that was wrung out of Cas was just perfect, _Ha, made you squeak, teach you to bite me_ , and Cas was shaking uncontrollably, trying to move—

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas gasped, sounding strangled, fingers tight on his shoulders, “ _Dean, please…_ ”

The agonized way Cas had just _begged him_ to finish made that heat in his middle flare up into a bonfire like he hadn’t felt before with Cas, and holy God, he hadn’t thought it was possible to get any harder but there it was, and Dean gave in, shifting his leg so Cas could move and just pumping his fist rapidly, keeping his grip on Cas tight like he liked it, and it was only a few seconds before Cas arched upwards against him—

It was easy to ignore the gross part of all this when Cas moaned his name like that.

Dean kept his hand moving through Cas’s orgasm, only grimacing a little as Cas splooged all over Dean’s hand and his own stomach. He stopped once Cas’s moans started sounding slightly pained, carefully letting him go and finding a dry spot on Cas’s shorts where he could surreptitiously wipe his hand off; just because he no longer wanted to puke any time he got his hands dirty didn’t mean he _liked_ it.

Cas was panting, all limp and dazed beneath him, his eyes still closed, but he wouldn’t let go of him. Dean really, really wished he would—he desperately needed to get himself off. He was still painfully hard, and the way he was rubbing against Cas’s bony hip wasn’t any kind of relief; he just wanted go back to the spare room and take care of himself, or maybe run to the bathroom, or hell, he’d just do it here so long as Cas wasn’t watching, but he had to do _something_. The way he was still all pressed up against Cas was just making it worse, because Cas was warm and soft and smelled of sweat and sex, and Dean had no idea why listening to Cas trying to catch his breath was turning him on like it did, but that wasn’t helping either, dammit!

Cas suddenly opened his eyes again, and despite still looking all stupefied, he managed to skewer Dean with that _look_ , like he always did, his big blue eyes all shining and soft, and Dean’s chest tightened as he stared back, and _fuck_ , he was on the verge of just leaping right out of bed and—

_Why_ did Cas have to lean up and kiss him again? Worked up like he was, Dean couldn’t help but kiss back, and Cas was keeping them shallow and shy, like he _knew_ Dean was about to explode and so was doing everything that he knew turned him on the worst. The hand on his back carefully slid up until he was gently gripping the back of his neck and pulling him back down. What the hell—was Cas trying for seconds? Even if Dean thought he had it in him, he knew better than to do that. Goddammit, he didn’t need to be lowering himself back down on top of Cas, because Cas’s fingers were stroking down his chest, stopping right where his heart was thudding out of control, and _shit_ , Cas was kissing down his jaw now, he was gonna go right for the neck—oh, _Jesus_ —

Dean was barely aware that Cas’s hand had slid around and down his back again until he felt his jeans moving, and he dimly realized that they were being cautiously pushed down off his hips. When he felt the rough material scraping across his crotch, he decided that was a good idea and reached down to help, wriggling and fumbling and trying to get them off, but it wasn’t easy because Cas was still alternately licking and sucking certain spots on his neck and shoulders and that was turning his already sludgy brain pretty much into mush. He felt a gentle hand join his own shaking one, helping to get his jeans off, and that was finally enough to let him get them past his knees so he could kick them away, the annoying fuckers, and then that same hand was slowly and deliberately dragging back up, up his thigh, over the curve of his ass, and Cas’s fingertips were maddeningly light first on his lower back and then they circled back around his front to splay on his stomach.

Dean hated how he couldn’t control his trembling, but that wasn’t his fault, because he was going fucking insane. Cas was just kissing him again, slow and lazy, and the hand on his stomach was warm and gentle as he just caressed him there over and over, and— _Jesus fuck_ , when his hand slid lower and pressed against the front of his shorts, he couldn’t help the thick grunt he let out, his hips jerking almost involuntarily against Cas’s palm, but then he sighed when he felt Cas’s fingers sliding tentatively under the elastic band, pushing it down as they went— _oh_ —

Dean could only bury his face against Cas’s neck with a moan as he thrust against the circle of his fingers. He could feel Cas trying to match him, trying to time his squeezing right, but it didn’t matter if he didn’t, didn’t matter that he was clumsy and didn’t quite have the hang of it because it was just _Cas_ , _his_ Cas, and Dean was working towards that end game he desperately needed and it was Cas helping him do it. He curled his arms under him, supporting himself with his elbows and holding Cas tightly to him and moving faster and feeling everything, feeling Cas’s thigh rubbing against his hip, feeling Cas’s other hand dragging down his back and lower, and, well, if Cas wanted to use his ass for leverage, he’d happily oblige him.

Cas’s grip suddenly tightened, and Dean hissed, the rhythm of his hips stuttering briefly, and he pulled his head back and bumped Cas’s forehead with his own, his eyes shut, his mouth open as he panted. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to be pissed off that he could already tell that he wasn’t going to last long, because it’d been way, way too long since he’d made it with anything other than his own hand, and he’d already been half-crazy for it before Cas had started, and Cas—

Dean’s eyes opened, and he could see nothing but _Cas_ , just those wide blue eyes, so bright, and that just made it worse, he could feel his stomach winding and knotting, and that _look_ , the way he _looked_ at him, Dean could not handle that, this was gonna be short enough as it was, so he roughly kissed him, his tongue frantically seeking his open mouth, and just kept moving his hips, feeling so much of Cas’s skin against his own, and the hand down his shorts was getting more skilled with every second. Dean felt fingers dragging up his spine, over his shoulder, and finally coming to rest on his neck, pressing against where his pulse was pounding out of control, and then Cas broke their kiss, and oh, shit, his lips were brushing over the other side of his neck and then suddenly his mouth latched on to his pulse point and Dean just thrust faster, _wilder_ , because holy _God_ everything was twisting tighter inside him, and he didn’t want to wait, _couldn’t_ wait even if he’d wanted to.

Cas seemed to know he was close, and he must have taken notes or something, because suddenly his hand gripped tighter and his movements quickened and Dean couldn’t think anymore, all he could do was let out a guttural groan because fuck— _fuck_ —he was— _oh fuck!_

He felt Cas’s breath rush out of him in a tiny huff when his arms constricted around him, crushing Cas against his chest, but all Dean could hear was his own agonized gasping as he finally, _finally_ came, and it was all searing heat and sliding skin and delicious friction and he heard himself moaning Cas’s name, because it was _Cas_ , Cas who’d done it, and he was still moving, they both were, _too much too much—Cas—!_

Dean’s hips slowed then finally stopped, and Cas relaxed his grip, and Dean sagged limply on top of him, struggling just to be able to fucking breathe again. He wasn’t aware of much except just…Cas, slim and warm and soft beneath him, one lean thigh cradling his hip, his fingers still curled around the back of Dean’s neck, the palm of his hand pressing against his thundering pulse. He couldn’t move—well, so what if he couldn’t, he didn’t want to anyway. This was fine— _everything_ was fine. He felt a gentle nuzzling on his cheek and leaned into it, feeling soft puffs of air cooling his flesh as Cas sighed. Dean echoed it when he felt Cas press his lips against his jaw, and he lifted his head to kiss him back, slow and gentle, his energy gone, his eyes still closed. Cas was petting his neck again, but Dean’s brains were still too scrambled to even privately mock him for being such a weirdo. ‘Sides, it felt nice.

He finally managed to get his eyes open, and he saw Cas staring back, looking more sated and serene than Dean had ever seen him. Dean had a good mind to tell the little punk to stop looking so smug, ‘cause he wasn’t that good, Dean had just been that desperate, so there. And now he was starting to get uncomfortable, because he still had his arms under Cas and they were going numb with all that weight on top of them. Shifting, he managed to get one out from under them, tilting to the side, their stomachs slick against each other—

—slick—and _sticky_ —

_Aww, fuck!_

Goddammit, he’d just let Cas jerk him off! And now that nasty shit was all over him!

“ _Fuck_ ,” he growled, shoving himself off of Cas and in the process pushing Cas away from him, jumping a little when the elastic of his shorts snapped against his skin when Cas’s hand was finally _removed_ from his person, _dammit_. Now he was fumbling for Cas’s nightstand, looking for that box of tissues he knew would be there, but _not_ thinking about why they were there because he already knew Cas was a dirty little pervert and he didn’t need to dwell on any more than he already was. His blundering hands finally found the box, nearly knocking it onto the floor but he somehow managed to catch it and quickly yanked out a handful of tissues and did his frantic best to get that stuff _off_.

Jesus, it was _everywhere_ —what the fuck, had he somehow missed the part where Cas had rolled him around in his own jizz? He sat up, grimacing, scrubbing furiously at his stomach. This was just nasty, and—oh, sonofa _bitch_ —

Keeping his back to Cas, he threw the box over his shoulder, hoping it nailed him right in the face—because if he was this… _filthy_ , then he knew that Cas wouldn’t be much better, because…

No. He was not going to think about how he’d pretty much just come all over Cas’s stomach like some kind of porno. Just like he _so_ wasn’t going to think about the fact that this was way too messy—way too _much_ —to all be his own, or that Cas had spunked up all over his own stomach first, and then—no. Just no. No, no, _no_.

When Dean finally chucked the disgusting wad of gooey tissues in the trashcan near the nightstand, he sat still for a moment, half-pissed that his breathing still wasn’t even yet. As he sat fuming, he could hear the slow, quiet rustlings beside him that were Cas moving around, taking care of himself, but then the noise stopped and Dean tensed; he didn’t know if Cas was gonna talk or touch him and if he did he was gonna get a black eye for it—

But nothing happened. Cas didn’t say anything, and he didn’t move. But Dean could feel him staring at him, like he always did, boring holes in his back with his fucking eyes, but Dean _refused_ to roll over and meet his gaze. See? This is why he never got drunk around Cas—because then he did stupid shit like let Cas fucking _molest_ him and wound up out of breath and fuzzy-headed and now his legs weren’t working so he couldn’t go back to his own room down the hall.

Irritably, he flopped around on the bed until he managed to get a handful of the crumpled sheets and get his feet under them, and then he yanked them over himself, doing his best to snatch as much of the covers away from Cas as he could because he felt like it. Maybe Cas would take that as a hint and would go sleep in the other room—because it didn’t matter that Cas was the one who kind of lived here now, this had been _Dean’s_ room first, and Cas had just stolen it from him. Well, maybe now Dean was gonna steal it back, see how he liked _that_!

But no, he didn’t leave, because Cas didn’t know a hint from his own ass. He was still for a moment longer, and Dean tensed again when he felt Cas moving around, the mattress shifting under his weight, but the tugging on the sheets told him Cas was just getting under them as well. His grip on them tightened so Cas couldn’t have any, but then the grisly thought of Cas curling up close to him and trying to—to _spoon_ with him just so he could get some of the covers was enough to make him let go again and almost throw all the blankets off and onto him. Cas made no move to touch him, though, and soon he was completely still again. Dean could hear him breathing over there, could feel him _looking_ at him again, so he just scowled at nothing in general and threw his arm up to grope around for the lamp on the nightstand, finally managing on the third try for the switch to turn it off and make the room go dark. There. Now Cas couldn’t stare at him.

Dean wanted to stay awake until he was sure Cas was asleep—he wasn’t gonna risk being petted or cuddled on in the night. But he couldn’t even keep his eyes open right now; the combination of the booze and his exhaustion and—and _that_ was doing a number on him. He wished he could just get up and go to his couch so he wouldn’t have to worry about anything, but things were warm here, and he was already in bed, and he could tell his legs were still out of order.

Well, screw it. He’d had to share a bed before, and with much worse (like Sam, for instance, who was all hard knees and pointy elbows and drool and who took up an entire queen-size bed on his own anyway). Cas had his side way over there, and Dean had his way over here. His muzzy head made it easy to not listen Cas’s steady, even breathing, and Dean tried to remind himself to wake up first so he could ditch and make sure nobody knew he’d been up here, but pretty much every part of his brain was telling him to think about it later, because he just wanted to sleep. Things could wait—he never slept much. He’d be up before anyone else. Just…he’d worry about breaking Cas’s face in the morning.

Yeah. The morning. He’d worry about everything in the morning.

* * *

What always sucked the most about leaving a job in a hurry was that one of them invariably forgot something in whatever hotel they were fleeing.

They were very good about not leaving the important things—they’d never forgotten to pack guns or knives or fake IDs, for instance. They weren’t _that_ careless. But there were still the little things—the _annoying_ things. Sam remembered the time that he’d opened his bag to change out of the muddy and reeking jeans he was wearing to discover he’d lost his spare pair, and once Dean had forgotten a Pink Floyd shirt somewhere back in Tennessee and had actually had to be talked out of going back for it, he was so attached to it. Just the occasional shirt or sock or hairbrush got lost in the shuffle of their frantic packing, and it didn’t hinder them—just _irritated_ them.

Which is why when Sam finally had to concede that yes, his toothbrush was back at the hotel they’d been staying in two nights ago, his sigh was not angry, just resigned. That toothbrush had been a new one, too.

Huffing a little, he closed the trunk of the Impala and shuffled back inside, scratching the back of his neck and heading for the stairs. Bobby, bless him, always had a cabinet full of all kinds of spare crap his guests could dip into, from convenience store hygiene products to random clothes, half of it left behind by passing hunters and the other half just things Bobby rat-holed away.

The closed door at the top of the stairs couldn’t block out the roof-rattling snoring from behind it; clearly Bobby hadn’t just passed out downstairs last night. Sam tiptoed past his closed door and snuck equally-quietly passed the half-open door to Cas’s room, where Dean—

Sam froze and did a double-take before his brain had caught up enough to warn him not to.

Yep, that was definitely Dean in there, sprawled out on his stomach across the bed in a tangle of sheets and bare arms and legs, his face half-smushed into his pillow and his mouth hanging open, sound asleep.

And there was no possible way that Sam could miss the fact that one of his arms was flung haphazardly over the huddled lump under the covers beside him—out of which was poking a familiar rumpled tuft of brown hair.

Sam screwed up his eyes and looked quickly away, inching sideways and only looking out of the corner of his eye and fumbling around until he found the doorknob, and quickly pulled the door closed. Then he stood still for a moment, grimacing, before shaking it off with a heavy exhale and deliberately walking toward the bathroom.

Dammit. Just because he and Bobby had gone out of their ways last night to get Dean to go upstairs with Cas still didn’t mean that they wanted to _see_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this was a big step...but everything wasn't immediately sunshine and daisies. Dean let the alcohol talk him into sex, but the next time, he had to do it himself. Go check out the "Good Times, Bad Times" aside [Easy Rhythm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/1925632) to see how Dean handles the next time he goes up for a little alone time with Cas.


End file.
